


The Corinthian's Lady

by DowagerLadyB



Category: HEYER Georgette - Works, The Corinthian - Georgette Heyer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:35:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 70,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29218086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DowagerLadyB/pseuds/DowagerLadyB
Summary: As instructed, Sir Richard has brought Pen to Crome Hall to Lady Luttrell. And then he must go home and face the music... He has a wedding to arrange.
Relationships: Penelope "Pen" Creed/Richard Wyndham
Comments: 226
Kudos: 61





	1. Crome Hall

It was a fine late June day in the Somerset countryside, not far from Bristol, and the time was early afternoon. A smart curricle, drawn by a pair of splendid bays, pulled up at the steps of a mellow stone country house, and a servant in livery came running out to hold the horses. The driver, a tall, exquisite gentleman of fashion in immaculate riding dress, leapt lightly down from the vehicle and, after a few words of conversation, was admitted into the house by the elderly butler. Any rational observer must surely have approved the placid, ordered beauty of the scene, and wondered idly what the handsome Corinthian’s errand might be: a picturesque one, it was to be hoped. Perhaps a fluttering, blushing beauty in an extremely becoming muslin gown was anxiously awaiting his visit – perhaps today might be the day on which her most eligible suitor would speak to Papa! It was a picture abundant with romantic possibilities.

Anyone who had been watching a few moments earlier would have observed a far less conventional scene. The curricle had come to a halt a few yards before the entrance to the estate, and a fair, curly-haired youth had exchanged a few intense words with the driver, and then jumped down from the two-wheeler and vanished into the hedgerow, darting anxious glances about him in what could only be described as a highly furtive and suspicious manner.

Serenely unaware of this mysterious event, the butler now conducted the visiting gentleman into a peaceful drawing-room, which overlooked a lovely garden full of roses. Its sole occupant was a lady in the forties who was engaged in a somewhat desultory fashion on a piece of needlework. She was dressed in dark green, quietly elegant, and the gentleman bowed over her hand with languid grace, and kissed it. “Sir Richard,” she greeted him composedly.

But when the door closed behind the servant, she grasped her visitor’s arm in great agitation and said urgently, “Do not say that you failed to find her! Surely not, or you would not have returned! Only tell me, where is Pen? I have been in a fever of anxiety, imagining what might have happened!”

He smiled at her and said calmly, “There is no need for apprehension, ma’am. I found her in good time, and I availed myself of your excellent advice and – ah – persuaded her to come back with me. She slipped from the carriage before we reached your door, and she awaits us in the arbour of your charming rose garden. It seemed better that your servants did not see her in her present attire.”

“Indeed!” the lady said drily, her relief evident. “Let us go to her at once.”

Sir Richard offered his arm, and his companion led him out through the French windows, between beds of white and pink roses in full bloom. The midsummer air was heady with their scent and the gentleman complimented her on it. “My garden is my chief pleasure,” she smiled.

A path wound off between high evergreen hedges and she drew him down it to an enclosed area, almost a secret room, where more roses surrounded a charming rustic bench. Upon it was seated the youth who had slipped from the curricle a few minutes before. His hands were clasped in his lap and he appeared to be labouring under some anxiety. He sprang to his feet when he saw the pair, and said tentatively, his large blue eyes full of apprehension, “Lady Luttrell?”

She surveyed him up and down, and burst into laughter. “Penelope Creed! What a shocking sight you are, to be sure! I have not set eyes on you for five years, and I perceive that you have not changed one jot!”

Miss Creed blushed, and looked down at her masculine raiment rather ruefully. “I am sorry to present myself to you in such a fashion, and I must thank you for offering to help me! I cannot imagine what we should have done otherwise.”

“Joined my idiotic son at Gretna Green, I collect, and wed across the anvil in your breeches!” Lady Luttrell said ironically. “Now we must make plans swiftly, and smuggle you into the house so that my maid can find you something to wear, before someone should see you, child.”

She turned to Sir Richard and announced, “I have been considering the matter in your absence, sir, and I believe that the best plan is for me to keep Pen in my care for a few days while I furnish her with some suitable clothing. Then I can bring her to London, we will put up at a respectable hotel, and you can be married as soon as it may be arranged. I gathered from what you said this morning that you mean to carry everything off in the most high-handed and breakneck fashion possible?”

He smiled a little wryly, saying apologetically, “You are entirely correct! I am resolved to marry Pen as quickly as may be. We can bring it off by special licence, even though Pen is not of age, if I obtain her aunt’s consent, which I assure you I will do, by fair means or foul. But are you quite sure this is the best plan, ma’am? It is a great disruption for you, when you have so many other problems to plague you.”

“Nonsense. I shall enjoy a trip to London – Sir Jasper will never consent to go, as he dislikes it so extremely. I feel it on my conscience that I have sadly neglected you, Pen, over the last five years, and now I can make amends in a practical fashion, and really be of assistance to you both.”

Pen said earnestly, “Ma’am, thank you! I am truly sensible of the debt we owe you!”

“Such fustian! Now you must say your farewells, before we are observed.” She turned to Sir Richard and said calmly, “You should look to see us in London in five days’ time, I think. If you give me your direction, I can write to you should anything go amiss.”

He handed her his visiting card, and said, “I will book a suite of rooms for you at Grillon’s Hotel, ma’am, and once again I thank you most profoundly.”

She smiled at the pair indulgently, and said, “Pen, I will await you in the drawing-room, so that I may bundle you upstairs to Smith’s care. Do not dawdle!”

She whisked herself away, and Pen found herself alone with Sir Richard once more. He drew her close, and she looked up at him a little shyly, saying, “And so I am to be Miss Creed again!”

“For a VERY short while, if I get my way,” he said with a smile.

He hesitated for a moment, then murmured huskily, “Brat, I’m aware that everything is happening very quickly. I should not, must not, allow myself to be carried away by my own selfish inclinations, however strong they are. Is all this to your liking?” He continued with a little difficulty, “Do you love me, Pen? And do you truly wish to marry me, in this harum-scarum fashion?”

Pen knew that this was no time for teasing. “Oh, Richard, yes, a thousand times! I do not wonder that you doubt me, after my idiotic behaviour. But when you told Piers we were betrothed, and he asked in ignorance of everything if I did not want to marry you, I knew all at once that I DID, more than anything in the world! And the thought that you must surely be proposing to me out of pure chivalry, and - worse - pity, was a torment to me, because I do love you, and I could not bear to be married to you if you did not feel the same!”

He chuckled a little unsteadily. “What a pair we are! I have been tied in knots all this week, fearing I could never make you see me as anything more than an uncle, and yet afraid to say a single word that would abuse your trust in me, and destroy your ease in my company, which was so precious to me. I longed so many times to catch you up in my arms, and knew I could not.”

“And I was oblivious to it all. I’m sorry, Richard! But I could not believe that you might possibly love me, or...or want me.”

“And now? Have I persuaded you yet?” 

His nearness made her head spin, and she was achingly conscious that he would leave her very soon, and that she would surely wonder if any of it had been real. The idea of not feeling his strong arms about her was intolerable to her, and so she whispered daringly, “Perhaps a little more persuasion…?”

“Oh, my love!” He drew her closer and kissed her, very gently at first, and then fiercely, as she responded and melted into his embrace. 

At length Sir Richard became aware of his surroundings once more, and discovered that Pen’s shirt and chemise had unaccountably come untucked from her breeches, and that he was caressing the smooth curve of her warm, bare back beneath them, and she was clinging to him, as if she would fall if he released her. This was all very shocking, and delicious, and must stop immediately. Or in a moment, perhaps.

Must. Stop.

He disengaged his lips from hers, and very reluctantly withdrew his hands from her intoxicating warmth. She gave a soft cry of protest, and buried her head in his chest. He held her tightly, his face in her golden curls, murmuring he scarcely knew what endearments.

At last he recovered his shattered composure somewhat, and held her a little away from him, saying with shaky laughter in his voice, “I am aware, my love, that still I have not asked you properly to marry me. I bungled it so badly the first time that I must surely do better now. Otherwise I shall be lying if I tell anyone that you have agreed to be my wife, for do you know that as yet you have not done so? Miss Creed, you know that I love you: will you make me the happiest man alive? Will you do me the honour of accepting my proposal of marriage? Tuck your shirt into your breeches, brat, and tell me!”

“Oh yes, Richard, oh, indeed I will!”

He smiled down at her. “I am very glad to hear it! Come kiss me one last time, Pen, for then I fear I must leave you. Do you know how much I shall miss you? For I am entirely addicted now to being in your company, and I do not know what I shall do without you! I am sure a day that does not have you in it will be sadly flat.”

“It is the same with me, truly,” she said fervently. “And I will miss you too, Richard, most dreadfully.” She still clung to him, clearly reluctant to let him go.

“Next time I see you, you will be a correct young lady in muslin, Pen,” he said a little ruefully.

“Are you sure you will still care for me, Richard, when you see me dressed as a girl at last? Imagine if you did not, how very awkward it would be!” Her tone was playful, but he could sense a real anxiety behind her light words.

He tightened his embrace and smiled down at her reassuringly. “My little love, of course I shall! However charming you are in breeches, and heaven knows I find you so, I am all too aware that you must put them off, and take up your petticoats, for how else can I make you my wife? I want to marry you, and ride and drive with you – not in a stagecoach! – and visit the play with you, and dance with you, and a thousand things more, and at the end of it all, my darling, I want you in my arms and in my bed, so very much. And in order to do all that, you must become a girl again. But kiss me just once more as you are, brat!”


	2. A Family Gathering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sir Richard has returned to London, and must now tell his family...some things. Nothing major. Shouldn't be a problem.

The butler, admitting Sir Richard Wyndham to his sister’s Berkeley Square mansion on the evening of the next day, informed him in the confidential tone of a trusted family servant that Lord and Lady Trevor had just finished dinner, and that moreover his mother had dined with them, and was still present.

“How fortunate,” said Sir Richard, a touch drily, as the elderly retainer ushered him into the blue drawing-room, announced him, and withdrew. If the servant heard him, or was aware, as surely he must be, of the family agitation that had followed Sir Richard’s mysterious disappearance some six days earlier, he betrayed no hint of this knowledge. The Corinthian squared his fine shoulders imperceptibly and saluted his assembled relatives, to all appearances as languid and nonchalant as ever. 

“Ma’am, Louisa, George, I am glad to see you,” he drawled with his customary cool composure.

In contrast, the small party which greeted Sir Richard showed an extraordinary reaction to his appearance. Lord Trevor strode forward to grasp his hand and shake it vigorously, crying, “Ricky! I am deuced glad to see you alive and well!” while Lady Wyndham appeared to go off into a swoon, moaning theatrically and falling back onto a conveniently placed satin sofa in a most dramatic fashion.

Louisa, Lady Trevor, seemed unconcerned by her mother’s apparent collapse, but jumped to her feet and practically shouted, in a manner unbefitting a lady of birth and breeding, “Richard, for heaven’s sake, where have you BEEN?!”

Sir Richard, disengaging himself from George’s clutches, flicked open his snuffbox with one hand, took a pinch and then snapped it shut, regarding his family with a twinkle of amusement. “Somerset,” he replied. “I am excessively happy to see you too, George, but I assure you there was never the least need to feel any concern for my safety. I was most touched when Cedric informed me that you were afraid I had put a period to my existence. I had not suspected you of so melodramatic an imagination.”

“Richard!” said Louisa in tones of strong resolution, “Please do stop being so odiously provoking! I collect that you have seen Cedric Brandon in the last few days, which is a great puzzle to me, because he was quite unaware of your whereabouts when WE last saw him. We have been in the greatest possible anxiety this past week. Poor Mama is quite overset, as you can see, and no wonder! I think you must allow that you owe us an explanation of your quite outrageous behaviour!”

“I say, Louisa, no need to be so harsh!” expostulated George, a frown creasing his good-natured face. “Should dashed well just be pleased to see Richard safe home!”

“No, George, Louisa is quite right; I do owe you all an explanation of my adventures over the last few days,” the Corinthian said calmly. “May I at least sit down while I provide it?”

Louisa’s fine eyes were sparkling with anger, but she gestured impatiently at a chair, and her brother smiled sweetly at her and seated himself with languid grace. Their mother, aware that no-one had paid the least attention to her fit of the vapours, moaned softly, opened one tear-drenched eye and whispered, in the voice of one very close to death, “Richard? My son, is it indeed you, restored to us?”

“Mama, please, this is no time for Drury Lane airs! Richard, I must and will have an explanation!”

Perceiving that it would be prudent to comply, and yet aware of the complexity of the tale he had to tell, and his family’s likely reaction to it, Sir Richard chose, in what he was sardonically aware was a slightly craven way, to begin with the part that concerned him least directly, and said, “I don’t suppose you have heard of the shocking thing that has happened to Beverley Brandon?” 

As he intended, this tantalising announcement brought his mother and sister up short, and they enquired with one voice, “No, what?!”

Sir Richard’s face was grave as he gave them the version of the tale that he had agreed with Cedric Brandon. “I know you are aware of the theft of the Brandon necklace. I don’t think you can have heard that I recovered it, quite by chance, and restored it to Beverley, in Somerset. But I am sorry to say that I have quite dreadful news – one of the ruffians who took it then followed me and must have seen me hand it over. Finding Beverley alone, he struck him down and stole it once more. I have to tell you that he is dead.”

“Beverley Brandon, murdered?!”

Lady Wyndham’s swoon was more genuine this time, and she had to be revived with sal volatile. Louisa and George too were deeply shaken by the intelligence, and full of sympathy for the Brandon family, and Lady Saar in particular, and so it was some while before Louisa’s native common sense prompted her to say slowly, “But you cannot have left town in such a peculiar way, secretly and in the middle of the night, to help poor Cedric recover the necklace, Richard, because he knew no more of your departure than we did.”

“You always were the brains of the family, Louisa; I congratulate you. You are quite correct; I went into Somerset on another errand entirely, and became entangled in this affair of the necklace quite by chance.” Sir Richard paused, and seemed to have some difficulty in going on. He appeared now to be choosing his words with the utmost care, much at variance with his usual insouciant manner.

Louisa realised that the expression on her elegant brother’s face was one entirely unfamiliar to her: he was completely serious, for once, and more than that he was – yes, he was worried over what their reaction would be when he revealed his secret, whatever it might be. She had recently accused him of being spoilt, cold, and caring for no-one, but he evidently cared a great deal for their reaction to whatever he was about to tell them. Genuine concern for him sharpening her voice for the first time, she said, “Richard, I am sorry – George is quite right, we should first say that we are delighted to see you home again. Now pray tell me, what’s the matter?”

George looked surprised but gratified to be thus agreed with, and Sir Richard grinned involuntarily at the expression on his face. His tone was still unwontedly serious, however, as he said, “Louisa – all of you – if I tell you the truth of what has happened, you must agree to keep it a secret between us; you will see why presently.”

Lady Wyndham sensed that her moment had arrived. She sat up straight, a Cumaean Sibyl in modern dress, her thin frame throbbing with emotion, and said in sepulchral tones, “I knew it! Did I not say so barely a week ago?! Richard, do not keep your poor mother in suspense. Who is she?!”

Louisa was surprised into an unladylike crack of mocking laughter. “Pray do not be ridiculous, Mama! I collect you mean to imply that Richard has…has involved himself with some woman and comes to tell us of it. I am sure nothing could be further from his mind!”

She was astonished, however, on glancing at her brother’s face to seek token confirmation of her confident statement, to see an expression there that put her forcibly in mind of a much younger Richard, caught in some mischief by his elder sister, and contemplating an attempt to cajole her into forgiving him.

“Well?” demanded Lady Wyndham awfully, in accents worth of Mrs Siddons in her prime. “Can you deny that a mother’s foreboding was correct?! May I remind you that we have seen THE LOCK OF HAIR?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Chapter One of The Corinthian: "I live in hourly dread of his bringing home some dreadful, low-born creature on his arm, and expecting me to welcome her... He is at a dangerous age, and I live from day to in dread of what he may do." Apart from the fact that Lady Wyndham is excessively fond of the word dread, this little touch shows Heyer's genius. Foreshadowing! Louisa doesn't think that her brother is romantic, but his mother - whatever her other faults - knows better. And she's quite right; unlike most other Heyer heroes, Richard doesn't really know or care whether his choice for a wife is "low-born" or not. It's all kicking off now...


	3. Ah, Yes, The Lock of Hair...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now he's really going to have to tell them all about it.

“The lock of hair…?” Louisa was incredulous.

“Oh, you shared that with Mama, did you?” said Sir Richard with a wry smile. “How indiscreet of you!”

George hastened to say that it had not been he who had passed on this information to Lady Wyndham, but Louisa brushed his words aside, as a gnat. “Be quiet, George! Richard, what nonsense is this? There can surely be no truth in what Mama is saying?”

Sir Richard sighed. “On the contrary. I really must congratulate you, Mama, on your quite astounding powers of divination. In earlier times you would have been burned as a witch; a melancholy thought. I am sure we must all be grateful that we live in a more enlightened era.”

“Richard!”

“I’m afraid Mama is quite startlingly right, my dear Louisa, though when you have heard the whole I hope you will rather congratulate me than set up lamentations. May I tell you the fantastical tale of the last week?”

Lady Wyndham had slumped back on the sofa again, having shot her bolt to devastating effect, and Louisa was regarding him with astonishment, while George appeared to be repressing a strong desire to start forward and shake him warmly by the hand again. Sir Richard took snuff, and began his story.

“You may recall, George, that I was somewhat the worse for wear when I left Almack’s the last time I saw you. I did not go straight home. While making my way through the streets, I came across what appeared to be a burglar, a mere youth, escaping from the window of a respectable house by means of a rope made of sheets. I stopped to observe.”

“Good lord!” said George. “It’s as good as a play!”

“I assure you, my dear George, this is only the prologue. I perceived that the sheets were too short, and went to assist, and possibly to apprehend the fugitive. But when he dropped into my arms, I realised…that it was a girl, a girl dressed in boys’ clothing.”

His listeners were rapt with attention, or possibly paralysed with horror. He took a deep breath, and continued. “She told me that she was not in fact a housebreaker, but a young lady in distress running away from her aunt’s house. When I suggested that I should really return her to her relative’s care, she informed me that it would be heartless to do so; that she was an heiress, who was being forced by her family, to marry her cousin, whom she loathed.” 

George let out a muffled exclamation, but Sir Richard persevered. “You may, I think, imagine my emotions, her predicament so resembling my own. And do, I beg, bear in mind that I was very drunk. I instantly resolved to help her on her way; she told me she was travelling to her childhood home in Somerset to seek the aid of her godmother, and in my inebriated condition I announced that I would accompany her. We repaired to my house so that I could change my clothes, and then set off on our adventure. Hence the lock of hair. Because,” said Sir Richard, his voice quivering slightly, “in my disguised state, I insisted on cutting her hair before I would be seen abroad with her.”

“By Jupiter!” said George. “The lock of hair! Deuced pretty golden hair, too!”

Louisa gathered her wits to speak, as her mother seemed unable to do anything but moan softly that they would all be ruined, and that she had always known this day would come. “Richard, to leave her house in such a fashion in the middle of the night, dressed as a boy, and to accompany you to your home! These are not the actions of a respectable girl. What kind of creature can she be?”

An unexpected note of steel entered the Corinthian’s voice. “She is a complete innocent, Louisa, scarcely out of the schoolroom. She was naturally apprehensive, and refused at first to accompany me, but I informed her that I had no intention of making love to her, and she chose to believe me – correctly, I hope I do not need to add.”

Louisa asked in tones of deep foreboding, “How old is she, Richard?”

“She is seventeen.”

Lord Trevor burst into laughter, but was quelled by a fierce, “Really, George!” and a frankly terrifying look from his wife.

Sir Richard continued, “I accompanied her to Somerset, featuring as her tutor, her uncle and her cousin, as circumstances demanded, and along the way we became embroiled in this affair of the Brandon necklace. Beverley was in fact staying with Pen’s godmother, Lady Luttrell – “

“Pen?!” enquired Louisa, her eyes wild. “I am quite distracted and cannot make head nor tail of this!”

“Pen,” nodded Sir Richard. “Her name is Penelope, Penelope Creed. I was of course unable to give her safely into Lady Luttrell’s care until this Brandon business was resolved, but I have now done so.”

He paused for a moment, then smiled wryly and said simply, “I have asked her to do me the honour of marrying me, and she has said yes. We have agreed that Lady Luttrell will bring her to town, once she has obtained suitable clothing for her, and then we will be married by special licence – with her aunt’s consent - as soon as possible.”

Louisa had somewhat disarranged her stylish locks by clutching at them, and looked positively demented. “Richard, it’s quite shocking that you have so compromised this child by careering about the countryside with her, unchaperoned, and I cannot imagine what can have entered into your head, drunk or not, but surely if few people know of it there is no need for such drastic action as marriage! It can all be hushed up, can it not?”

“It can and will be hushed up, my dear Louisa, but you are labouring under a grave misapprehension. I didn’t ask Pen to marry her because I have compromised her – but because I love her!”

George could no longer restrain his elation, and rushed forward to grasp Sir Richard’s hands and offer him heartfelt congratulations, which his brother-in-law accepted with genuine gratitude and affection. “Thank you, my dear fellow, I knew I could rely on you. I promise you, you will get on famously with her, for she is entirely delightful.”

“I do not doubt it,” said George, still wringing Sir Richard’s hands. “I wish you very, very happy, Richard! I told you to run, and find a cosier armful, did I not? And I am excessively pleased that you have done so!”

Lady Wyndham seemed, perhaps fortunately, to have been deprived of the power of articulate speech, and could only sob brokenly, but Louisa had not. She was not by any means so soft-hearted, nor so quick to congratulate her brother, as her husband. “Truly, Richard? You have fallen in love, at your age and in a couple of days, with a chit of seventeen? After never setting eyes on a girl who so much as caught your passing interest in all your years in the best society! What can there be about this chit to knock you at sixes and sevens so? Please make me understand. Is she a great beauty? But you have seen so many, so surely it cannot just be that. Oh, do stop whimpering, Mama, it is beyond distracting. Yes, yes, you prophesied this, Mama, and so we all acknowledge!”

Lady Wyndham bridled indignantly, and murmured wounded, inarticulate protests, but her children ignored her. Sir Richard gazed thoughtfully at his sister, and she thought, I have never seen him like this before; he really thinks himself in love at last. 

He wisely refrained from pointing out that his ability to assess his betrothed’s charms as they might appear to others was perhaps impeded by the fact that had never yet seen her in feminine garb. Instead he said reflectively, “I don’t know if you would call her a beauty. I have not stopped for a second to think whether the world would consider her so, nor do I care. Although surely anyone who does not share my partiality must still acknowledge that she has a very speaking countenance, and an adorable pair of dimples, besides the finest, most expressive eyes I have ever seen. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, Louisa! She has a great deal of charm, of that you can be assured. All I can say with security is that she is brave and tender-hearted and full of spirit, and I love her more than I can tell you. And it did not take a few days, Louisa – I knew within twenty-four hours of meeting her.”

Louisa was disarmed by this unexpectedly candid confession, and blinked away a sudden fugitive tear. She felt herself beginning to soften, against her will, and said, “Oh, my dear, then I can only be glad for you! But why the great urgency? Must you be married in such a headlong rush? Why not have the banns called, in the usual way? Surely an engagement of at least a few weeks would give her time to buy her bride clothes, and for us to become acquainted with her? And recollect that your household will need to be set in order to receive its new mistress, and settlements drawn up, and I know not what!” 

Sir Richard sighed. “Perhaps you are right, Louisa, but where is she to go in the meantime? Only consider! She cannot return to her aunt’s house – even if it were possible, I would not permit it, for she was treated most appallingly there for five years. Lady Luttrell would be happy to take her in, but she has her own family affairs to deal with, and is besides fixed in Somerset. She really should not stay with you, or Mama, as that would occasion gossip in itself, making it clear she is estranged from her own family. To be plain with you, there is no-one in the world apart from me who yet values her as she truly deserves, and I am determined to make a home for her as soon as I am able. I want nothing more than to do everything in my power to make her happy.” 

Sir Richard grinned in self-deprecation, his mien more relaxed now that he had shed the burden of his secret, and once again his sister was struck by the change in his demeanour over the last week. “Also, I must confess, I have grown entirely accustomed to spending a great deal of time in her company, and I miss her most dreadfully. I find myself noticing some small thing every hour or so that I wish to share with her. I feel my life sadly dull without her, and I wish to be married as soon as possible, so that we can be together. A week’s delay seems already too long.”

He looked at their astonished faces and burst into laughter. “Yes, yes, I confess, I am an eager bridegroom, and you may ridicule me for it as much as you like; I shall accept your mockery with the greatest equanimity possible, for I know I deserve it.” 

Lady Wyndham, who had been ominously silent for a while, now tottered to her feet and announced, “My nerves cannot support more of this! I have had a most severe shock, and I wish to go home, and rest my aching head. Richard, I see that you are determined to proceed on this rash course; I can only hope that you will not find it to be the most egregious folly! I can hear no more of this now, for my head aches quite dreadfully. I wash my hands of it! I only hope I may not go off into a spasm and be confined to my bed for a sennight. George, will you call for my carriage, while I am still able to gather my senses?”

George was most happy to hasten from the room to do so, but her son took her hand and said, “Mama, forgive me! I am fully sensible that this has been a dreadful shock to you, but I promise that you will find Pen a delightful daughter-in-law. You will see that I intend to change my mode of life completely, and leave my foolish gambling and drinking days behind me, as you desired. I know you have said a thousand times that the happiness of your children is your only object, and I promise you I shall be happy – much happier than I could ever have been with Melissa Brandon.”

Louisa could not help but admire her brother’s address, yet still felt the mention of Melissa to be ill-judged, as it caused their parent to recollect with horror the hideous embarrassment that must attend upon their further relations with the Brandon family, and animadvert upon this at length, ending with the heartfelt cry, “What will I say to Lord and Lady Saar – their son most horribly murdered, and now this?!”

Sir Richard was resolute, however. “Mama, I cannot marry Melissa simply to avoid awkwardness, and I assure you the match would have been a disaster. Cedric will set all straight with his father. I will not speak of the details, but I have saved the Brandon family a great deal of trouble and notoriety regarding the theft of the necklace, and Cedric will make sure Saar is sensible of it. We will discuss this further when you are recovered, Mama. I know that when you meet Pen you will realise her worth. I see that you fear she is a designing female, but I swear to you that nothing could be further from the truth. Indeed I think when you come to know her you will acknowledge that I am very lucky to have found her!”

George returned at that moment to escort his trembling mother-in-law to her carriage, making a creditable show of regret at her departure, and leaving the siblings alone. Louisa shook her head and sighed. “I must suppose you old enough to manage your own affairs, Richard! I cannot stand in your way, but I would never have thought you capable of such a start. George would have it that you were a romantic, and that Melissa was far too cold for you, and I see now that he was right, and I was wrong. I do most sincerely wish you very happy, but to choose a child not yet out! I cannot see how such a disparity of age and experience can make for a contented union.”

Her brother laughed. “Contented! I don’t want contentment, Louisa, I want love! I know some may think it an odd start, but I care nothing for that.”

He broke off, and rose to his feet, pacing about the room, filled with a restless energy, quite unlike his normal lazy manner. He turned to his sister once more, his face filled with most unwonted animation.

“You have often told me I have a strange turn of mind, have you not, one that you said would repel any woman of sensibility? Well, Pen is certainly not that, thank God! She and I share the same sense of the ridiculous, Louisa! I’ve never met a woman before who sees the world in the same way I do; I suppose if I ever thought of it, I imagined that such a creature could scarcely be.”

He laughed impatiently, exasperated at his apparent inability to explain himself so that she would understand. “Oh, my dear sister, I have only to meet her eyes across a room and I know what she’s thinking, and we are quite often barely able to contain our mirth, for a cause that would seem entirely ridiculous to anyone else. Every hour I spend in her company, she will do or say something that would make me love her in that moment if I did not already. I tell you, Louisa, I thought the right woman for me did not exist, and now by a strange and wonderful chance I have found her. I have no intention of letting her slip out of my grasp.”

“What can I say, then? It will be a great scandal, though, Richard, have you thought of that?”

“No, it will not, he said resolutely. “It will be a sensation, not a scandal. Here is the story, and mark it well, for it will be chiefly you who tells it: travelling in the West Country while aiding my friends Cedric and Beverley with the recovery of their mother’s stolen necklace, I happened to have occasion to visit the house of the Luttrells, an eminently respectable family of local landowners. Why, Sir Jasper is a magistrate! There I met their young friend Miss Creed, daughter of their late neighbour, a beautiful girl most tragically orphaned and alone in the world. Despite my well-known cynicism and coldness, I was captivated by her ingenuous charm. I instantly fell in love with her, soon proposed and was accepted. I am so head-over-ears that I insist upon an immediate marriage. I can think of nothing else, and will brook no resistance. Pen is swept off her feet. How romantic! the world cries. Cinderella adapted for the modern taste, my dear sister.”

Louisa considered this. “I see. A fairy story! That could answer the purpose, I suppose.”

“Of course it shall. You will tell one or two of your dearest friends, in strictest confidence, that I am madly in love and have taken you greatly by surprise, and they will tell all the world. You never suspected me capable of such passion and such impetuosity. I am deaf to all words of caution, the most eager of bridegrooms. The best of it, Louisa, is that it’s all true! Where is the scandal?” 

She was forced to laugh. “And you don’t mind being a laughing-stock?”

His face was entirely grave but his eyes were dancing now. “How so? Surely I am a romantic hero?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love George. Everybody needs a George.


	4. I Am Far Too Happy To Squabble With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louisa still has some objections...

George returned, much relieved by his mother-in law’s departure, and was apprised of Sir Richard’s plan, which he considered to be most romantic, quite like a novel, and to which he engaged to give his unstinting support. His wife regarded him with exasperated affection. “It is merely that you are so glad Richard isn’t marrying Melissa Brandon that you would approve of whatever crazy thing he did!”

George was affronted, and said with wounded dignity, “I think that’s dashed unfair. I only want Richard to be happy. I am quite ready to own that I don’t like the Brandon girl. I always thought the marriage was a bad idea of yours, and Lord knows I was right. Herself an iceberg, and her brothers and father a set of loose screws who’d bleed Richard white. Kind of people who just WOULD go and get themselves murdered, sorry to say! But left to himself, no interference from you, he goes off and finds a nice girl with no pesky brothers to drain his coffers dry, and she’s an heiress! Which I know is of no consequence to you, Richard, not the least in the world, but it ain’t a bad thing, is it?”

Louisa said, “Of course it’s of no consequence to a man of Richard’s wealth, George, nor should it be to us! I am more concerned to know what her family and background are, Richard, but I collect that you have fallen so headlong into this that you have no idea at all.” She had moved from disapproval to exasperated resignation, and there was no heat in her words now.

Sir Richard was not in the least offended, and allowed that there was some truth in what his sister said. He shrugged. “Pen’s mother was a French émigrée who died when Pen was barely out of the cradle; she had no other family as they all perished in the Terror, while Mr Creed was an eccentric Somerset gentleman who died some five years ago. She has inherited his house and estate, though of course she hasn’t been permitted to live there for five years. We have talked a little of it; I know only that the house is Tudor in origin, and that Pen’s illustrious ancestor was a great beauty at King Henry’s court and lady-in-waiting to Queen Catherine Parr.”

He smiled sweetly at his sister. “You will allow, Louisa, that all this sounds perfectly unexceptionable? Pen tells me that the house and land are quite lovely, and she is very anxious that I should see them, but there has been no time yet to do so. As to the extent of her fortune beyond that, if anything, I have no notion and I don’t care one jot for any of it. My only concern over her property is that it should be extricated from her aunt’s grasp, so that she can be restored to full possession of everything that is rightfully hers. She has no idea of the terms of her father’s will, but my lawyer will soon enough find out where we stand, and it is my intention to ensure that the house is made habitable as soon as may be, so that we can go there, perhaps in the autumn.”

“Where will you go on your honeymoon, assuming you can marry as soon as you hope?” asked George.

“Brighton, of course! Pen must be introduced to polite society with no loss of time, and I rely on you, Louisa, and you, George, to help me.”

George was quick to assent, but Louisa was more doubtful. “You would not think of travelling into the countryside for a short while? Poor child, I should think she would be quite horrified by the prospect of being launched straight into society with all eyes upon her. Could you not take a few weeks’ leisure?”

Sir Richard was not swayed by this persuasive argument. “It takes a good deal to horrify Pen, you will discover. We must certainly do all we can to smooth her path, and I do not intend to confront her with three rout parties every night; as a newly-wed couple we must be allowed some modicum of privacy. God knows I would prefer to be alone with her. But reflect, Louisa, I have no option but to take her to Brighton no more than a few days after we are married.”

“Why so? Surely you may please yourselves?”

He gave a slightly twisted smile. “I do not think you can have considered – that is the surest way to cause a bustle. How can we hope to avoid a scandal if we marry in haste and disappear into Somerset, or anywhere else, straight after the wedding? Gossip would reach fever pitch in our absence!”

“I suppose that it true,” she agreed reluctantly.

“And furthermore, if she does not immediately upon our marriage make her appearance in the polite world, what will be said later if Pen should find herself in a delicate condition? If no-one set eyes on her when we were first married, there will always be those who maliciously cast doubt on the timing or the circumstances of our wedding, and say that there is some disreputable secret to be found. People are always so ready to believe the worst. We must give them no opportunity to do so.”

Louisa was dumbfounded, and even blushed slightly. “I… I suppose you are right. I had not considered such a circumstance.”

George chuckled. “But Richard had!” 

His wife glared at him and he said contritely, “I’m sorry, both of you, I don’t mean to be vulgar.”

Sir Richard waved an indulgent hand. “My dear George, the fault was mine for raising an indelicate topic. Let us put it out of our minds. I am far too happy to squabble with you.”

George then insisted that they drink a toast to the forthcoming nuptials, and, that done, Sir Richard made his departure, as he had a great deal to do over the next few days, including a meeting with his lawyer, an interview with a bishop, what could not fail to be a most unpleasant meeting with a certain Mrs Griffin, and the purchase of a wedding band and wedding gifts for his bride. He had already informed his household staff that he was to be married, and they were in a great bustle of excitement, making everything ready. 

Lord and Lady Trevor presently took themselves off to her bedchamber, to discuss the whole affair at length and in private. Louisa confessed herself still possessed by a profound astonishment, for she had to own that she had never thought to see her brother deeply in love at this stage in his life. “But George,” she said, tying the strings of her nightcap in a most decided manner, “I am quite agog to meet this chit, for despite all his raptures I still cannot imagine WHAT manner of a girl she can be!”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you haven't forgotten about Aunt Almeria?


	5. Mrs Griffin Receives An Unexpected Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is really not going to be an enjoyable meeting. For anyone.

Late the next morning, Sir Richard Wyndham was to be found, impeccably dressed in superfine coat, gleaming hessians and biscuit-coloured pantaloons, paying a call at a rather gloomy house at the unfashionable end of Mount Street. If he cast a swift, reminiscent glance at a certain second-storey window, and smiled a little to himself at the memory it evoked, no-one was there to see, nor to understand the significance.

The butler was elderly, and presented a somewhat down-at-heel appearance as he admitted Sir Richard and shuffled off to take his carte de visite to his mistress. His pace was glacial, but in a little while Sir Richard was shown into a stuffy, over-furnished drawing-room, where he found Mrs Griffin awaiting him, dressed in a morning gown of sombre hue and elaborate construction, with a great many alarming, beaded flounces. She sailed forward to greet him, and he soon became aware that she supposed him to have come in search of her elder son, whom she regretted was not at home. She seemed to feel it natural that they had struck up a bosom friendship, and that Sir Richard should wish to further their acquaintance.

Sir Richard felt himself obliged to come straight to the point, and to disabuse his hostess of any notion that his visit was a mere social call. It was likely to develop into a most awkward interview, once the truth was revealed to Mrs Griffin, and there was no point in delaying the inevitable.

“Ma’am,” he said more forcefully than was usual for him, “I fear you are labouring under a misapprehension. I am not here to see Mr Frederick Griffin, but to discuss with you the disappearance of your niece. I am come to relieve your natural anxiety, which I know must have been overpowering your mind and keeping you awake of a night, and inform you that she is safe and well.”

She regarded him fixedly, with the beginnings of a high colour in her cheeks, and a martial light in her prominent eyes. “Why, how is this, sir?” she said in awful tones. “You assured me repeatedly last week that you knew nothing of the wretched child’s whereabouts!”

“I lied,” he said crisply.

Her glare would have daunted a lesser man, but he continued imperturbably, “When she climbed out of your window that night, I was passing by. She told me of her predicament – of the distasteful marriage you were attempting to force on her – and I resolved to help her escape it, and to make her way to the safety of Lady Luttrell’s home, where she now is.”

Mrs Griffin was struck dumb by this unexpected intelligence, but sadly the effects were all too brief. Sir Richard was then obliged to endure several moments of fluent though genteelly-expressed abuse of his manners and morals, but when his hostess turned her wrath on Pen, and began cutting up her character and accusing her of moral turpitude and gross ingratitude, he interrupted the tirade.

“Mrs Griffin,” he said icily, “I am aware that my actions were imprudent, and that you feel you have some right to blame me. I have heard you do so, with some justice. Enough now! I would have a great deal more sympathy for you if I felt you sensible of any genuine concern for your niece’s well-being. I tell you on my honour that Pen in her innocence has come to no harm at my hands, nor at the hands of anyone else, while she has been in my company. Madam, I assure you I have not comprised her. If you choose not to believe me, I am sorry for it, but it still remains true. I wish to hear no more vulgar insinuations on that score. I also have no desire to listen to your opinions on Pen’s treatment of you, just as I imagine you have little desire to hear MY opinion of the appalling and heartless way you have treated her while she has been a defenceless orphan, in your care and under your roof!”

Mrs Griffin gobbled furiously at this, and declared that she had never been so gratuitously insulted in her life. “I have been as a loving mother to that deceitful, ungracious chit, whom I welcomed into the bosom of my family and treated as a daughter! And now she slanders me to strangers and entirely fails to repay my many kindnesses! No-one can know the pains I have taken! And what right do you, sir, have to comment on my actions?!”

Sir Richard took snuff. “I have the right that will be conferred on me as Pen’s husband. I have no intention of discussing my feelings for her with you. Suffice it to say that I mean to marry her as soon as it can be arranged, by special licence, for which you will give your explicit written consent as her aunt and guardian.”

“Oh, I will, will I, sir?!” stormed the lady, all guns blazing. “And if I refuse, and insist, as is MY right, that the marriage I – her guardian and nearest relative - have arranged with my son takes place, despite her patent unworthiness? After her recent disgraceful antics, she should count herself fortunate indeed if my poor, deceived Frederick still wishes to take her and save her good name!”

The Corinthian’s voice was arctic as he said, “I think you would be wise to reconsider that course, ma’am. I scarcely imagine that you would enjoy your conduct towards Pen over these last five years becoming the tittle-tattle of London. I am sure you consider that all your actions were fully justified, but gossip can be so malicious, can it not? All that is needed is a hint dropped in the right ears! And it is a tale so calculated to catch the sympathy of the polite world. I can hear the gleeful whispers now: an heiress of tender years, tragically orphaned, left in the care of her nearest living relative, hoping to find love and succour for her grief, and instead finding misusage, coldness, and in the end a forced marriage! Driven to midnight flight by her abuse! I am sure that you would not enjoy being the villainess of such a story, and I cannot think that your sons’ prospects in life would be materially improved by it either. One can even imagine it making an appearance on the stage! Which noted actress would you prefer to take your part in the melodrama, ma’am? It will, I fancy, be called The Lost Heiress, or perhaps The Wicked Aunt, if you think that sounds more truly dramatic?”

Mrs Griffin’s cheeks were ashen now, and she seemed much struck by the horrible thoughts thus vividly presented to her. Sir Richard perceived her sudden sense of doubt, and was not slow to press home his advantage.

“I give you my word that we will not spread this abroad, will you only write your letter to the bishop at my direction, giving your consent. Then all you need do is put Pen’s possessions into the hands of the servants I will send for them, and you may wash your hands of us for ever. I know you have no true fondness for her, nor any desire to see her to assure yourself of her health and happiness, so do be reassured that my wife and I have no intention of remaining on visiting terms with you, or any of your family. My lawyer and man of business will call on yours for an accounting of Pen’s affairs, and to undertake the marriage settlements, but you need not trouble yourself over that.”

Sir Richard was not, of course, privy to Mrs Griffin’s private reflections, and could only be satisfied with the profound impression that his words appeared to make on the lady, such that she subsided in silence in front of her writing desk and immediately dashed off a few lines, which she then handed to Sir Richard with a very bad grace, desiring him in plain terms to leave her roof at once and for ever as soon as she had done so. He bowed with chilly civility, and was very happy to take his leave. “What a dragon she is, indeed!” he murmured to himself as he departed the house. “To have lived under her roof for five years - my poor darling!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always imagine Aunt Almeria being played by Dawn French, in a really bad mood.


	6. Sir Richard Writes A Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter in which Sir Richard crosses another unpleasant task off his to-do list.

Sir Richard felt that he was making swift progress with the arrangements for his marriage, and he was enjoying putting everything in order, as he felt that each task he completed brought him closer to the day that he would stand beside Pen and claim her as his own. But there remained one more highly disagreeable task that he could not in all conscience put off any longer. He had to write a letter.

Dear Melissa, he began,

I am conscious that I should in all decency call on you to express my condolences in person, but Cedric tells me that your mother is quite understandably not receiving visitors, and I fear that my presence would only cause discomfort for you and for your sisters. I am so very sorry that you have lost your brother, and in such distressing circumstances. I hope it may be some consolation at least to know what I can tell you with honesty: that he cannot have suffered, nor even have known any apprehension of what was about to happen to him. I have spoken to the person who witnessed his death, and I can assure you that this is so.

I believe Cedric has told you that I have done all in my power, and will continue to do all in my power, to ensure that his reputation, and that of your family, is not damaged in any way by the arrest and trial of the criminal responsible, although I fear that the trial itself will inevitably be an ordeal that must be overcome.

It is impossible for us, situated as we are, to discuss our last meeting, but I hope you will agree upon reflection: our conversation made it clear to us both that, despite the intentions of our relations, we were and remain entirely ill-suited for each other. I told you then that it was my dearest wish that I might one day meet a woman who could love me for myself and whom I could love. I trust that the flippancy of my tone did not conceal the fact that I was entirely serious when I expressed this hope. You in turn made it apparent, as was your right, that you could give me no assurance that your feelings towards me could ever become warm ones; more than that, you gave me to understand that the idea of such a marriage based on tender emotions - at any rate, such a marriage with ME - was entirely repugnant to you. I am grateful for your honesty, but I think that the wide gulf between my feelings and yours on this subject must serve to show, once and for all, that a union between us would have been disastrous for both of us. These are not medieval times, and, whatever your views may be, for myself I cannot think that any person, male or female, of any rank in life, should be censured for aspiring to happiness in marriage, with a companion for whom he or she feels the most tender emotions.

Against all expectation, and by the most extraordinary serendipity, I have now met a woman who inspires such feelings in me (as, to my great joy, I do in her), and we are to be married very soon: within a week. I can say no more of her here, nor would you wish to hear it, but I hope you will accept my assurances that I had no notion even of her existence when you and I talked so frankly. I asked Cedric not to tell you my news, but do not blame him for his silence; I do not think it right that you should learn of my impending nuptials from anyone other than myself, and certainly not by reading the announcement in the papers. It is not my intention to cause you any added distress, but I know you value frankness, so I feel I can say to you that I consider myself greatly at fault for not having had our discussion sooner, so that we could both extricate ourselves from the invidious position in which we have been placed through no fault of our own.

I know that you are not one to relish empty platitudes, so I will end by sending you my sincere good wishes. I hope you in turn can one day find it in your heart to wish me happy.

I remain your friend,

Richard Wyndham

Sir Richard folded the letter, addressed it to Miss Brandon of Brook Street, sealed it and impressed his seal into the wax. He rang the bell, and the note was taken away to be delivered. It was done! 

He sat back in his chair, frowning slightly. He was not satisfied with his missive, but despite all his famous address he could find no better way of informing the lady he had come perilously close to marrying that he had by the greatest good fortune stumbled across a woman of a very different kind, and was to wed her within the sennight. The very haste involved gave such an eloquent indication of his eagerness to join himself to Pen, in stark contrast to his reluctance to entangle himself with HER. Yet he owed Melissa a letter, at the least, and he had written her a letter. There seemed to be no way to make it contents anything other than horribly clumsy; so be it. He could not be expected to sacrifice the love and happiness now within his grasp to spare Melissa and her family embarrassment. 

He was also aware that there inevitably would be unpleasant gossip and speculation once his sudden marriage became public knowledge, and that some of it would be bound to swirl around Melissa. The fact that this sensation would presumably be subsumed in the far greater outcry over the murder of Melissa's brother could hardly be expected to console her. The one bitter advantage of her current situation was that a family in deep mourning would not be going about in society, and so would not - yet - be forced to confront malicious tongues, curious whispers or pitying looks. He himself did not relish the thought that the polite world might imagine he had abandoned Melissa because of her brother's squalid death. But surely his own wedding would scotch such rumours; if he had indeed jilted Melissa (as perhaps in all sober truth he had), it had been for love, nor for sordid considerations of reputation, and he could not regret it for an instant. 

When he returned home from his errands later that day, the Corinthian found a letter waiting for him in turn. It was his own. It had been returned by messenger, opened, but torn into a thousand pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might say that someone in Sir Richard's position should really call on Lord and Lady Saar in person to give his condolences. But would this truly be the action of a gentleman? The Brandons are in deepest mourning and great distress (well, maybe not Cedric…), and only imagine if they greeted the Corinthian as a prospective bridegroom for Melissa, come to share their sorrow. He would then have to contradict them and repudiate the engagement, and they might well think he was rejecting them because he no longer wanted to be associated with a family who had experienced a scandalous death. The only way he could refute that would be by explaining that he has fallen in love with someone else. Things might be said that could not be unsaid. (For instance, the fact that Melissa lied to him at their last meeting when she said that she'd always considered herself to be engaged to him). This is surely not a scene that should be inflicted upon the recently bereaved. I'd be very surprised if handbooks of etiquette gave advice on this sort of thing.


	7. At Grillon's Hotel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've all been very patient, but we're getting to that time now...

At last, the momentous day came – the day on which Pen was to make the acquaintance of her future in-laws. She would surely have been nervous enough about that, had her mind not been consumed by a far more pressing anxiety. Sir Richard had upon their last meeting reassured her most effectively that his feelings for her and his plans for their future together in no way depended on her wearing masculine garb - she could still recall every single word he had said to her on that memorable occasion, and grew warm and rather flustered at the recollection - but she would scarcely have been human if she had not felt anxious. The Corinthian had convinced her by his words, his actions and the very way that he looked at that he loved her, and she must also trust that he desired her - he had told her so, and given her every reason, from passionate kisses to delicious caresses, to believe him - but she knew that, apart from that one intense encounter in Lady Luttrell's rose garden, she was as inexperienced with the male sex as a young lady well could be, and she had no map to guide her here. And could it not also be true that, despite an experience of the world and of the intimate relations between men and women that she must presume to be far greater than her own, Sir Richard might take one look at her and decide that he had been wrong: that it had in truth been the stripling in breeches that he desired, and not the young lady in petticoats and muslin? Despite her short acquaintance with him, she knew with absolute certainty that, even if he did feel differently towards her when he saw her now, he would not repudiate her. He was irrevocably committed. He was above all a man of honour, and would make her his wife whatever his private feelings might be. She supposed with a slightly hysterical inner chuckle - while all the while standing a little outside herself and observing that a lively sense of humour could sometimes be a curse - that any gentleman might feel that jilting two young ladies in the same week would exceed the bounds of acceptable behaviour and render him liable to the severest censure. 

The morning in question found Lady Luttrell, Miss Creed and Lady Luttrell’s maid installed in considerable style in Grillon’s Hotel, having arrived from the country by private conveyance the evening before, and awaiting a visitor. On their entrance the previous evening, they had been conducted to one of the hotel’s most luxurious suites of rooms, and discovered it to be extravagantly full of flowers. The unctuous hotel functionary who had led them to their rooms pointed out that the blooms had come with a note, “Delivered by hand, madam, by Sir Richard Wyndham’s footman.”

Pen had seized the missive, which was addressed to her in a fine, bold hand, and opened it with a heightened colour. She had flushed still further on reading it, then put it away in her reticule without disclosing its contents, except to say that Sir Richard had engaged himself to wait upon them on the morrow, at ten in the forenoon.

It now lacked but a few minutes to that hour, and the ladies were reposing in their elegant private drawing-room; or at least one of them was reposing, whilst the other was betraying a great deal of agitation. “My dear Pen, please do sit down and compose yourself,” expostulated Lady Luttrell, laughing at her. “You are pacing up and down like a caged beast in the menagerie, and it is quite fatiguing to watch. You look perfectly charming, and you have no grounds at all for such anxiety.”

Her companion was indeed attired most becomingly; her soft blue-sprigged muslin gown, worn over a delicate lawn habit-shirt, was entirely suitable for such a young lady, and its simple lines flattered her slim figure. Her frame was not willowy and fragile, but rather she looked strong and vigorous, as though she would be most at home on horseback, and well able to control a restive mount. She was considerably above the average height but moved quite gracefully, even while pacing. Her hair was a bright guinea gold, newly cut in a daringly short crop by one of Bath’s most fashionable hairdressers, and her eyes were very large and expressive, and of an unusually deep blue. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. You are right, of course, but you must allow that my situation is peculiar! I am awaiting my affianced husband, whom I am to marry in a very few days, and yet today will be the first time he ever sees me dressed in feminine clothing! I wonder if anyone has ever been in such a tangle!”

Lady Luttrell, herself very becomingly attired in a day dress of deep plum, replied in bracing tones, “My dear, it is my belief that Sir Richard loves you so much that he would not care greatly if you presented yourself to him in sackcloth. I am sure he has written to you in most pleasing terms – oh, I see you blush! - and I know he will relieve your apprehension within a moment of his arrival. I will of course leave you alone for such a delicate reunion; I know it is entirely improper for me to do so, but as you are so soon to marry and have already spent the best part of a week unchaperoned in his company, it would seem ridiculous to do otherwise.”

Pen blushed more deeply, and thanked her for her consideration, going on to say, perhaps in an attempt to distract herself from her private worries, “I can never thank you enough, ma’am. I am very sensible that our marriage would have been immeasurably more difficult to arrange so quickly – or at all - without all your kind assistance!”

“Think nothing of it. I greatly enjoyed helping you to acquire the beginnings of a respectable wardrobe, for you know I never had a daughter to spoil, and shopping is a weakness of mine. As for the rest, Sir Richard has paid for everything, including this most luxurious hotel.”

“But I fear it was quite unconscionable of us to drag you to London at such a time, when Piers and Lydia may be returning to Crome Hall at any moment, and you not there to greet them!” said Pen, conscience-struck afresh.

“Nonsense,” she replied calmly. “I do not believe that they will be eager to rush back and confront us all - can you imagine that Lydia, or indeed Piers, will look forward to their first encounter with the Major? - and if they do my servants are prepared to receive them. It might in fact be no bad thing that they establish themselves in the house in my absence. They are, we must assume, a married couple now. It is of no consequence, in any case, as long as I return before Sir Jasper does, and my letter informing him of the situation can only just have reached him in the far west of Ireland. I am sure he will not abandon his important business and race home, for I have told him there is no point at all in his doing so. I have no fears on that score, and nor need you.”

It was at this moment that the mantel clock struck ten with silvery chimes, and the door was opened by a most superior footman, who announced the arrival of Sir Richard Wyndham. His tall, immaculate figure stood on the threshold. As the door closed behind the servant, Lady Luttrell melted silently into her bedchamber, reflecting with a wry smile that Beau Wyndham, widely famed for the elegance and correctness of his address, did not appear to have noticed either her presence in the room or the fact of her leaving it.

Left alone, the pair seemed frozen in silence for an endless moment, their gazes locked together, then Sir Richard crossed the room in three long, fast strides and somehow Pen was his arms. He held her in a tight embrace and whispered into her curls, his voice a little unsteady, “My little love!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a horrible, evil place to end a chapter. Just a little more patience is required.


	8. You Intoxicate Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I must admit to some trepidation. Too much? Not enough? Here goes...

Pen buried her face in the Corinthian's broad chest, and found herself so full of emotion that she could only cling to him, her heart beating furiously, and so they stood in electrically charged silence for a while. At length she raised her head to drink in the sight of his face, an unspoken question in her candid blue eyes. His grey gaze was - she thought, she hoped - as warm as she had dreamed it might be, but he did not allow her the leisure to observe him for long. 

He bent his lips to hers and kissed her tenderly. Too tenderly? she wondered in a flash of doubt. If she responded to him with passion, would she ever know if his reaction was real, or feigned? But if she held back, might he not think that SHE did not desire HIM sufficiently, and fear to scare her, and temper his response accordingly? Perhaps for ever? 

It was a moment that could have diverted and set awry the course of their marriage - their whole lives together. Luckily, Sir Richard's carefully crafted, cool, habitually indifferent exterior concealed a great deal of ardent feeling, long suppressed, and while he might have intended to - and had told himself he surely would - take things slowly with Pen, lest he frighten her with the depth of his desire, now that he held her in his arms at last, draped as she was for the first time in thin muslin that allowed him to feel the warmth of her supple body so close to his, his self-control was not strong enough to resist. He had spent the last few nights in increasingly fevered dreams of her; he had pictured her in shirt and breeches, in the shirt alone, and the breeches alone, and most of all he had pictured her naked. He had not considered how much she might affect him when dressed in a more conventional fashion. The prevailing mode of the day had a great deal to answer for!

He groaned against her mouth, and abandoned himself to sensation. He deepened his kiss, and the tip of his tongue dipped into her mouth, and found hers. His hands, moving of their own volition, skimmed her back, and found her tight buttocks, cupping them, lifting her and pulling her closer against him. She was not soft and yielding, passively feminine, like most other women he had known, who had allowed him to mould them to his will; no, she was taut, strong, lithe, alive, delightfully responsive, and she felt in that moment all but naked in his grasp. He was harder than he had ever been in his life, and he knew that she must surely feel him pressing against her belly below her short stays - he could feel exactly where they started, and where they ended - through the thin fabrics of her gown and petticoats, and his knitted pantaloons. The thought aroused him all the more. Christ! He felt fit to explode. 

After a while he pulled away a little, breathing hard, though he did not, could not, release her. He murmured huskily, “Let me look at you a moment! My God, how will I ever let you out of my arms again!” 

Pen felt almost weak with relief, and with the surge of passion that had overwhelmed her, and was not entirely sure that her legs would support her if called upon to do so. "Need you let me go, Richard? I am sure I do not wish it!" 

"Nor I!" he almost gasped. He held her, and tried not to grind himself against her as his hungry, impatient body demanded. That could only end in disaster of one kind or another just now. Perhaps if he talked lightly about what he had dreamed about doing with her, he might not actually be impelled to do it? Witty repartee, verbal sparring, words not actions - that was what was needed. "There are so many things I want now that you are in my embrace. I have kissed these adorable dimples in my dreams a dozen times these past days! And I have imagined this…” His long, clever fingers caressed the tiny curls at the back of her neck, and she gave a small, involuntary moan of pleasure. Clearly that had been a ridiculous idea. Possibly the most ridiculous idea ever. He had no choice now but to hold her even more closely, more dangerously, and renew his kiss, his tongue plundering her mouth once more, as it opened to him. 

Her fingers were twined in his hair and she found herself desperate to press every inch of her body against his. She did not know precisely - not PRECISELY - what she wanted, only that the new sensations she was experiencing were heavenly, and she wanted more. Muslin and lawn and heated skin slid against superfine cloth and knitted stockinette, and the friction was delightful.

Neither of the pair could have said how long had passed before he reluctantly freed her and said with much less than his habitual perfect suavity, “My love, I fear we must compose ourselves, for Lady Luttrell is sure to return soon, and I have a great deal to tell you. Let us sit down.” 

A great deal of Pen’s constraint had vanished in the fervour of his embrace, for he was plainly in no way disappointed in her. She might be inexperienced - though she thought with a delicious shiver that she was not destined to remain so for very much longer - but she was not entirely naive, and she was tolerably certain that what she had just felt pressed against her, so hot and hard and intriguing, could be described as both a proof and a promise. So she was able to take her seat beside him on the spindly sofa, albeit a little shakily, and smile at him with almost all of her usual mischief and self-mockery sparkling in her eyes. “I have been in a fever of anxiety, and driven poor Lady Luttrell quite distracted,” she confessed, “over whether my appearance would be…pleasing to you, Richard.” 

He clasped her hands and raised them to his lips, kissing them fervently. “Minx! Can you now doubt that you are pleasing to me?! You intoxicate me! And you should know that my love for you does not depend on what gown - if any - you happen to be wearing, vastly becoming though this one is. My darling, I cannot tell you what it means to me to hold you in my arms once more. I swear my blood leaps in my veins at the mere thought of you, but my God, when I touch you…”

It seemed they must embrace again, but there was a tap at the door, and they sprang apart. It was perhaps fortunate that Lady Luttrell should choose to enter the room at that moment, so that Pen was able to calm her blushes and, after both she and Sir Richard had once again thanked their duenna for her many kindnesses, to listen collectedly to his description of the arrangements he had been making. 

His voice and manner were entirely calm and controlled now, with no hint of the passion of a moment ago. “I have seen your Aunt Almeria, Pen, and obtained her consent – though I cannot say it was given willingly, or without a great deal of extremely tiresome recrimination – to our marriage by licence.” 

“I imagine that must have been a most trying interview,” said Lady Luttrell drily.

“Indeed it was, and she was only induced to submit when I threatened to expose publicly the shocking manner in which she and her family have treated Pen over the years, and most especially in the last few months. Indeed, when I saw her I did not know the half of it. Quite apart from the atrocious way she has bullied Pen, and attempted to coerce her, my man of business has already begun to suspect her of double dealing when it comes to her accounts. My knowledge of the shabby treatment you have had from her, my love, does not sit at all easily with the picture that her own account of her expenditure on you paints. I could pursue it further, but I shall not unless you particularly wish it. I am sure you desire nothing more than to be free of her, and as there is no reason why any of us should ever set eyes on her again, let us put her from our minds at once.

“She has sent on your belongings to my house, and we may now wash our hands of her, and of the whole pack of Griffins.”

“That would be a great relief,” said Pen, “but it cannot quite be correct, because surely the arrangements for our marriage will somehow involve my uncle, as my trustee?”

“True,” Sir Richard acknowledged, “but my lawyer and my man of business are dealing with all that. Settlements are being drawn up, to protect your interests, but we have nothing to do but sign them. I have been most insistent that you must be put in full possession of your home and all your property as soon as possible, and I assure you that everything is in hand. Your father’s lawyer is a very correct old stick, and refuses to give you your mother’s jewellery until after we are married. I am very sorry for it, as I am sure you would have liked to wear some of it on your wedding day, so I have instead brought you this.”

He produced a small leather jeweller’s box from his pocket and placed in Pen’s hand. She opened it to reveal a beautiful pearl drop, in a simple setting of tiny sapphires, depending from an elegantly wrought gold chain. “Oh!” she gasped breathlessly, her eyes filling with tears, for she had not of late years been accustomed to receiving any gifts. “It’s lovely! Richard, thank you! And oh, I never thanked you for the flowers! You are for ever giving me things! Would you put it on for me, ma’am, please?”

Lady Luttrell fastened the clasp securely around Pen’s neck, and she and Sir Richard complimented her on how much it became her, which in truth it did, as he had chosen it with a nice eye to match her creamy skin, golden hair and deep blue eyes.

“And I see you kept my father’s ring safe, Pen. May I replace it with this?” He placed another box in her hand, and on his urging she opened it and took out a lovely ring: a square-cut sapphire, just the colour of her eyes, set in diamonds. “Let us see if I estimated the size correctly,” he said. She gave him her left hand and he gently pushed the sapphire ring on to her ring finger. She was highly conscious of even such a light touch and the fire it threatened to ignite in her once more. The wicked glint in his eyes told her he felt the same, but he said merely, and very correctly, “Perfect! I think that becomes you enormously, do you not?”

She was quite unable to speak for a moment, overwhelmed by all that she was feeling, only smiling mistily up at him as she took the signet from her right hand and passed it back to him. “Thank you!” she managed at last. “It’s beautiful! You are too good to me, Richard.”

He shook his head. “They are mere baubles, but I wanted you to have something to wear for our wedding.”

“And when is that to be, sir?” asked Lady Luttrell, feeling that it was about time she reminded the couple of her presence, before they fell into each other's arms once more.

“This Monday,” he responded. Just in that moment he dared not look at Pen, nor she at him. Between the laughter they always shared and the knowledge of how very soon they would be together, they would surely both be overset. “I have a special licence in my pocket, so we could if we chose be married straight away, but I thought it better for you both to make the acquaintance of my family first. They are all agog to meet you, Pen!”

“Indeed!” she said rather hollowly. “I cannot conceive how they may have reacted to your news, Richard! I am afraid they must have taken me in the greatest dislike before they have even encountered me!”

“Nonsense!” he said, smiling down at her reassuringly. “My brother-in-law George is the most amiable fellow imaginable and will be your greatest supporter. My sister is entirely reconciled to our marriage, and has done me the favour of saying that she now knows she was wrong to try to force me into a marriage of convenience, and that she only wants me to be happy. She is a fond sister at heart. She told me yesterday that her children are in a fever of impatience to meet you, and that my young nieces hope that you will allow them to be your wedding attendants, as I am sure you will.”

“Oh! Of course I will. And your mother?” Pen asked, not to be diverted so easily.

“My mother…” He sighed. “My mother is of a dramatic disposition and has been putting on a great many die-away airs and enjoying herself immensely. It seems she has always secretly feared – I know not why – that I will present her with a daughter-in-law from the lowest gutter of Covent Garden. Once she sees you, she will realise that her apprehensions are preposterous, and calm herself. Your perfectly charming appearance and manners, and the presence of Lady Luttrell, will go a long way to reassure her.”

“When must we meet them all?” asked Pen with visible trepidation.

He took her hand again and squeezed it. “We are expected at Louisa’s house for nuncheon in half an hour.” 

Pen smiled a little tremulously, her air reminding Sir Richard forcibly of one condemned to death, but determined to face her fate with courage. “Very well!” she said bravely. “Let us go! It would not do to be late.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you see what I did with the chapter title? Intoxicated, you see, because he...


	9. A Visit to Berkeley Square

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A more sedate chapter, in which Miss Creed at last makes the acquaintance of Sir Richard's family.

Lady Trevor was almost equally agitated at the prospect of meeting her future sister-in-law, but concealed it under an air of cool, well-bred indifference. Her husband was emboldened by his great affection for his brother-in-law to take her to task as they waited with Lady Wyndham in their elegant blue drawing-room. “Ma’am, Louisa, I hope you will be welcoming to the child! I had thought that you at least, Louisa, had entirely come to terms with Richard’s marriage. I declare the poor girl must be terrified of meeting us, and your gloomy faces will scare her so much that she will cry off, and leave Richard standing at the altar! 

Lady Wyndham shot him a look of burning reproach, but Louisa was surprised into a laugh. “I’m sure there is no danger of that, George. Richard is, after all, one of the most eligible bachelors in London!”

“And she’s an heiress. If she’s half as captivating as Richard says, she could have her pick of eligible bachelors, and a noble title to boot! We may consider ourselves lucky he snapped her up before she made her come-out!” George retorted, pleased with himself.

At that moment the butler, not quite succeeding in concealing his triumph at being the first Trevor family retainer to set eyes on Sir Richard’s prospective bride, announced the arrival of Sir Richard’s party, and slowly withdrew. 

Lady Trevor moved forward to greet them, her husband at her side, as Pen dropped a shy, correct curtsy. Louisa was generally considered a tall woman, and now experienced the unfamiliar sensation of looking up at another of her sex, into a pair of very large and very apprehensive blue eyes. Her humour and compassion came to her aid, and she took Pen’s hand and said warmly, “My dear child, do not look so terrified! I promise you we will not bite you. Welcome! We are very pleased to meet you.”

Pen smiled gratefully at her, her trepidation receding a little. Pen’s fascinating smile was her best feature, lighting up her face, and Louisa was forced to acknowledge that her brother had hardly exaggerated the extent of her charm. She approved of Pen’s simple, modest muslin gown, and was impressed, almost against her will, by her graceful bearing, and an indefinable presence that she was sure the chit was too young to be deploying consciously. Her hair was short, to be sure, and her figure boyish, but it was almost impossible to imagine her masquerading as a youth in such a shocking way. Louisa’s first impression was favourable, as she moved on to greet Lady Luttrell, impressed too by that lady’s air of quiet self-assurance. 

Pen turned to George, who greeted her in a very friendly fashion, and beamed at her good-naturedly, telling her how delighted he was to make her acquaintance.

Sir Richard gave George a speaking look of gratitude, and took Pen’s hand in a reassuringly firm clasp, drawing her over to his mother’s sofa and saying, “Mama, I am very happy to present Miss Creed to you. I know that you will love her for my sake, before you know her well enough to love her for her own, and welcome her to our family, as she has none of her own.”

Pen curtseyed deeply, and said earnestly, “Ma’am, I am so terribly sorry to have given you such a dreadful shock, when I know your health is not strong. It was quite unconscionable, and I hope you will forgive me! Indeed, it was not done on purpose, but I would not blame you if you were angry!”

Clever, very clever! thought Louisa appreciatively. That was very well done! I see there is more to her than an alluring smile and a pair of dimples. Her countenance must have betrayed her thoughts to a discerning observer, for Lady Luttrell, standing close by, said in a low, amused voice, “I have known Pen from the cradle, ma’am, and I must tell you that she is truly a very good-natured, kind-hearted girl, but she is also far from stupid!”

“So I perceive!”

Lady Wyndham, forced by circumstances to greet Pen with at least a facade of complaisance, was also genuinely relieved by her manner and appearance, and realised at last that her elegant, fastidious son was in truth hardly likely to fall deeply in love with and wish to marry a woman of the town such as she had imagined. So she smiled in a saintly, wistful fashion and said faintly, “My dear child, do not say so. I never speak of my ill heath, you know, but simply endure it. Welcome to the Family! Understand a mother’s natural apprehension, I beg! I am indeed very pleased to meet you.”

Pen met Sir Richard’s eyes for a brief moment, and twinkled in response to the humour she saw there, but she said gravely, “Oh, ma’am, of course I understand! You must have felt the most reasonable concern, and I can only thank you for greeting me so very cordially!”

At that moment Lady Trevor’s young daughters, bouncing maidens of nine and seven, were shown into the room by their prim governess, in a high state of excitement at making Pen’s acquaintance. Miss Jane and Miss Anna were delighted at the prospect of gaining a new aunt, and charmed in an instant by her youthful face and ready smile. They grabbed her hands and drew her over to a sofa, bombarding her with eager questions. Their young brother Ned, they told her, was quite a baby still at three years old, and had not been deemed fit to be presented to her today, a fact which gave them a good deal of unsisterly satisfaction. They were most insistent to know all about her, her family, and what she planned to wear for her forthcoming wedding, in which they were to play such an important part.

Louisa spoke softly to her brother, “That scene with Mama was very deftly handled, Richard. I don’t know what Pen might have said that fit the purpose better. I collect that you are not taking an idiot to wife.”

“Did you think I might?” he said coolly, his eyes glinting under their heavy lids. 

“In all honesty, no, I suppose not, but I am very favourably impressed. And look at her now, charming my daughters. I gather from what you have said that she has no siblings, and no young relatives to speak of, and yet she knows just how to converse with the girls; I expect they will be in raptures about her.”

“I think you can absolve her of any calculation there, Louisa. She is very warm-hearted towards the world in general, and extremely fond of children in particular.”

“What a fortunate circumstance!” she said drily. Her brother raised his quizzing glass to survey her, but she preserved a perfectly unmoved countenance, and refused to admit by as much as a flicker of an eyebrow that she might have intended any vulgar implication.

The young ladies of the house were soon, much to their chagrin, banished again to the schoolroom, and the party moved into the dining-room to partake of an elegant light nuncheon. Lady Luttrell and Pen were seated either side of their host, and Sir Richard was at Pen’s other hand, so that the engaged couple were able to exchange a few discreet words when the flow of conversation allowed them to do so. He smiled warmly down at her in one of these intervals and said, “You are charming them, my love – I hope you feel somewhat relieved now that you know my family are not absolute monsters!”

“I am greatly relieved; they have been most kind, and your nieces are quite delightful. Even your mother is not as terrifying as I had feared!”

They were obliged to turn their attentions then to their other companions, and Pen discovered Lord Trevor and Lady Luttrell conversing about the beauties of Somerset, and that lady’s own family circumstances. “My son,” said Lady Luttrell resolutely, trying not to catch Pen’s eye, “has himself recently married, and will shortly be returning from his honeymoon in Scotland.”

Pen suppressed an impish chuckle at this description of what she knew only too well to be a Gretna Green elopement, and said sedately that she was very much looking forward to seeing Piers and Lydia upon her return to Somerset. “I cannot wait until my house is set in order,” she confided to George with one of her enchanting smiles, “and I can show it to Richard. I cannot believe that he has not seen it yet, and I am all impatience. I was able to visit it briefly this week for the first time in five years, and all seemed well enough, but no-one except my housekeeper has lived there for an age, and it will be truly wonderful to be able to spend time there again. You must bring your wife and children to come and stay with us once we are sure it is fit to receive visitors, sir!”

Lord Trevor was much touched by this invitation, and begged Pen to call him George, “For we are all family now, after all, my dear!” She beamed at him gratefully, her large eyes full of emotion, and his soft heart was won.

Pen did nothing over nuncheon to damage the good impression that she had created, and Louisa was also very happy to admit that Lady Luttrell was a woman of great good sense, delicacy and humour, with whom she was happy to become acquainted. 

Sir Richard was content to leave his affianced wife and her duenna in Louisa’s care, as it had been agreed that his sister would take them to her own fashionable modiste. Pen was declared by the other ladies to be in great need of more gowns and other essential items to add to her trousseau, as she was to make her debut in fashionable society in a week or so. Lady Wyndham announced herself too overcome with emotion to make one of this expedition, to everyone’s relief, and so they separated.

George was enormously taken with Pen, and told Sir Richard so once they were alone. “I am sure you will be very happy indeed, and when I think what a mull Louisa and your mother almost made of it between them, trying to wed you to the Brandon gorgon, it scarcely bears thinking of!”

Sir Richard smiled, “I am very well aware that I have had the closest of close shaves. My life has been quite transformed in an instant, and I am very sensible of it. Truly Pen is everything I could have dreamed of. I know I will face a great deal of raillery from my friends and acquaintance, for falling so desperately in love in such a short time, and for my altered manner of life, but I do not give a fig. Now come with me, George, and help me buy my wife a horse!


	10. Madame Franchon is Delighted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I believe it's actually illegal not to have a chapter in which the female characters visit a modiste.

Madame Franchon welcomed Lady Trevor and her companions into her elegant mirrored salon with all the deference that a very good customer merited, but when she was given to comprehend that to her would fall the honour of dressing Lady Trevor’s prospective sister-in-law on her debut into polite society, she could hardly restrain her enthusiasm. She was a very shrewd, sharp-eyed French businesswoman, and understood perfectly that it could only add greatly to her credit to be known as the appointed modiste of a lady who was sure to be the cynosure of all eyes this summer. She knew Sir Richard Wyndham to be not only a leader of fashion, but also fabulously wealthy; he was likely to be extremely generous towards his bride, and to expect – no, demand - that she attired herself in such a way as to place her entirely above criticism. Money would surely be no object. The young lady she saw before her bade fair to be one of her most lucrative clients for many years to come.

It was unfortunate, to be sure, that it was too late in the season for the new Lady Wyndham to be presented to Queen Charlotte in a staggeringly expensive lace court dress, but that would have to wait for another year. It was also a shame that the child was so tall, and so under-endowed with bosom, but these were mere details. Her height would have to be accepted -even Madame could do little about THAT - and turned to a positive; still, she was attractive enough – goodness knows Madame had seen, and dressed, much, much worse – and had a certain something about her already, even in her provincial gown.

The two older ladies seated themselves on a satin sofa, refreshments were brought for them, and Madame fussed around the younger lady, muttering to herself in her native language, while Pen stood rather uncomfortably in her petticoats, chemise ad short stays on the elegant carpet. 

This would not have been Miss Creed's preferred way of spending an afternoon, she would have said a few days earlier. She had not particularly enjoyed shopping with Lady Luttrell in Bath, except as a means to an end. She had not in truth ever been terribly interested in fashion, nor in her own appearance, and she had mourned the freedom breeches had given her when it was gone. She had kept her cousin's suit, discreetly wrapped in a bundle and buried under her other clothes, though she scarcely knew why. But she was no fool and she had realised that she needed to do Sir Richard credit by her appearance, and so she had determined to bear all this nonsense patiently enough. 

But that was before. Before he had held her SO, and she had felt his hands on her, pulling her ever closer, the heat and hardness of his body pressing against her. Now, she looked at the thin gowns - they were so very flimsy and insubstantial, the gowns married ladies wore, and not long ago she might have been shocked at the prospect of wearing them - and wondered how they would feel on her skin. Off her skin. Would he like them? If he did, or didn’t, what would he do? Would he cool towards her, or would he rip them off her body as he had her cravat that first night? Why was it so hot in here, and yet she had goose-bumps?

The modiste stepped back now and clasped her hands together. “I see it all!” she exclaimed.

Pen was startled, dragged from her reverie. "Really?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle! Not at all in the common style – very plain, restrained, no frills and flounces - but I promise you, you will set your own mode, and others will follow it, if they are able.”

“Will I?” enquired Pen doubtfully. “It doesn’t seem at all likely to me.”

Madame overruled her effortlessly, and in no time at all she was trying on a bewildering array of gowns, most of which were at present too short for her, being measured in alarming detail, and draped with all kind of fine fabrics that occasioned great debate among the other ladies present.

Louisa and Lady Luttrell were thus able at intervals to converse privately, and soon reached a very tolerable understanding. “I do think it will serve,” said Louisa thoughtfully. “You can imagine my concern, when Richard informed me out of the blue that he was marrying a chit of seventeen he’d known for a week, but I do see that she is quite out of the common way, and in some ways is older than her years, despite her undoubted innocence.”

“She had a most unusual upbringing, in the first instance,” said Lady Luttrell, “and then I suppose the heavy losses she has sustained have made her more reflective than you might at first imagine. She has a very lively sense of the ridiculous, which I see that your brother shares, but she has known and overcome a great deal of unhappiness, and it has made her independent, and, as you say, somewhat more mature in her sensibility. At her age I was quite a child, and thought of nothing but fine gowns and the prospect of balls and parties, but I don’t think she cares a jot for such things. I have conversed with her at great length over the last few days and I can assure you that she truly values your brother for his many sterling qualities, and not merely for his handsome face and person, as perhaps you might suppose of one so young. And she certainly has no interest whatsoever in his fortune, nor his standing in society.”

“I am very glad to hear you say so, ma’am, and I believe you to be correct in your estimation. In fact, though of course Richard cares nothing for it, I understand that she is an heiress of some kind?”

“Indeed so. A most considerable one, if truth be told. Her ancestors were most shrewd, and bought up large tracts of land around the cities of Bath and Bristol, where they have erected streets of fine properties, which are leased out. If you have stayed in one of Bath’s most elegant hotels, ma’am, you were probably residing under a roof that ultimately belongs to Pen. Her house and land must be worth a fair sum, but I should think they would be quite dwarfed by the house property in various places.”

“Good heavens! I had no notion.”

Lady Luttrell smiled at her new acquaintance. “I know. I am very glad that she has managed to evade the clutches of her appalling relatives, and even more gratified that she has found a husband who cares everything for her, and nothing for her money. I am very fond of the child, I like your brother enormously, and I think that they will deal together extremely. And I shall have charming new neighbours - which is always gratifying when one lives in the country - and see you again soon, I hope.”

The ladies’ attention was then drawn to Pen, and a debate over whether the olive green or toffee brown pelisse best became her. It was discovered that she could wear several colours that did not generally become blondes, but the piece de resistance of the afternoon was universally agreed to be a most stylish and unusual evening gown in midnight-blue silk, in which she looked quite ravishing, and, she felt, quite elegantly unlike herself. The bodice was lower than anything she had ever worn before, and clung lovingly to her small, high breasts, the tiny puff sleeves barely skimming her shoulders. She stroked the silky fabric, and blushed deeply.

At length they took their leave, having commanded what seemed to Pen a quite staggering number of day dresses, evening gowns, shawls, spencers and pelisses, and yet they were not done, but repaired to a shoe-makers, and then to a milliner’s, for hats were clearly of the first importance too. Here Pen slightly surprised Louisa by her declaration that she didn’t care for bonnets, but Lady Luttrell was not astonished, having taken Pen shopping in Bath. “What Miss Creed means, ma’am, is that she dislikes the restrictive nature of poke bonnets, and much prefers a more open style, much like the Circassian cap she is wearing at present, which you will allow is most well-chosen. And you would wear a villager straw, Pen. I hope? For it would become you excessively.”

Pen agreed that she was not so unreasonable as to disdain a villager straw, and suggested with a twinkle that perhaps a dislike of bonnets might become a part of her unique mode, which other young ladies would rush to copy. 

“I know you are funning, my dear,” said Louisa seriously, “but I should not wonder if it does not in fact prove to be so!”


	11. The Eve Of The Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sir Richard and Pen have a most indelicate, but necessary, conversation.

It was the day before the wedding, and the arrangements were all complete, not that she had had to bestir herself in any way, Pen reflected, as she sat curled in the window seat of the hotel’s private sitting-room, reading a new novel, recently purchased at Hatchard’s, in a desultory fashion and watching the parade of people in their Sunday best in the street below. She could not in truth concentrate on her book. She was sure that in other circumstances she of all people would have been fascinated to learn that it was a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife, but at present she could not concentrate on the vicissitudes of the Misses Bennet. 

Lady Luttrell had gone out alone to visit an elderly relative dwelling in the unfashionable environs of Russell Square, and Pen was glad of a little time for sober reflection. She had been caught up in a veritable whirl of activity since her arrival in London, and had not seen Sir Richard without a chaperone – without what seemed like dozens of chaperones – since their first most thrilling and most definitely unchaperoned meeting in this very room a few days ago. Her life since then had taken on an aspect of unreality that disturbed her a little. She had not the slightest doubt that she wished very much to marry him – to marry him tomorrow! – but she would have liked before then to see him, to talk to him alone, and to see the look in his eyes that promised so much.

It seemed, then, almost as though she had summoned him up like a genie by merely wishing for his presence, when the superior footman announced him and admitted him to the room. “Richard!” she cried, jumping to her feet. “I have just been wishing most earnestly that I might see you, and here you are!”

“I am glad of it,” he said with the lazy smile she so loved. “I collect that Lady Luttrell is not here?”

“She has gone to visit her mad cousin Eliza in Bloomsbury,” Pen told him cheerfully. “I know it is most improper for me to receive you completely alone, but indeed I am so very glad to see you, my dear Richard.”

He took her hand and drew her down to sit beside him on the sofa, smiling at her with complete comprehension. “Nerves?” he asked.

She twinkled at him, grateful as ever for his ready understanding. “Not nerves, precisely, only that…I am very happy to be reminded of what you look like, Richard, when not surrounded by hordes of other people.”

“And I am very glad to see you, my love. But we will be married tomorrow, and then no-one can prevent us from being alone together, as much as we wish.”

The Corinthian’s voice was very deep and rich, his words almost a caress, and she was very conscious of his nearness and the electric touch of his hand on hers, but he did not make any move to kiss or embrace her, and she understood suddenly that he was attempting to exercise the strictest self-control. She was not sure if she wanted him to succeed, or to fail. He had failed before, and it had been glorious; her flesh tingled at the thought. She shifted a little on the satin sofa, smoothing the muslin folds of her gown with a hand that shook slightly, and she thought he caught his breath.

His tone unwontedly serious, he said, “I am glad of Lady Luttrell’s absence, Pen, for I want to talk to you in private.” She looked at him with bright enquiry, and he said, “My love… I am going to say something that you might find quite shocking, but on reflection I hope you will understand why I do so, and forgive me.”  


Her trust in him was very great, and so she continued to smile at him, and await his explanation, but her mind was racing as she wondered what it was that he thought would shock her. She did not dare to imagine.  


“I hope you agree that there should always be perfect honesty between us.”

“Of course, Richard!” She was lying – she could not at this moment imagine sharing her hectic thoughts with him.

“I know you are a country girl, Pen, and so I think perhaps you have a better understanding of what passes between a man and a woman when they are married than a town-bred girl would.”

She gulped, and nodded. She did; she had an idea, naturally, of the basics of anatomy. She knew what was to be achieved, though she was hazy as to the details, not quite sure how exactly one – two - might go about achieving it. 

He continued with deep feeling, “You must be aware, I think, now that I have held you in my arms, that I desire you very passionately. When we are married I will do my best to make you desire me, as a woman has a right to desire her husband. I flatter myself even now that when I kiss you, when I touch you, you are…far from indifferent.”

Indifferent! She flushed to the roots of her hair now, but she looked bravely into his face, and nodded again, saying in a small but very clear voice. “No, no, you should know I’m not indifferent, Richard. Not. At. All.”

“I am very pleased to hear it,” he said, smiling at her in a way that made her heart beat even faster, and her feverish skin tingle.

He hesitated for a moment, and then went on, “Sometimes I fear that in marrying you I am being unpardonably selfish. I cannot be easy in my mind until I have talked of this with you, however unconventional it may be.

“There is no other way to say this. It seems more than likely, my darling, that when we are married nature will take its course, and you will find yourself, perhaps quite quickly, in a delicate condition. It is that that I wish to discuss with you.”

She managed to find her voice again, and to ask him, “What do you mean, Richard?”

“It is exceedingly hard for me to look past the pleasure that I hope we find in each other’s arms, Pen. It fills most of my waking thoughts, and I dream of it at night. I can think of a hundred – a thousand things I would rather be doing now than having this conversation with you.” He smiled wickedly at her as he said it, and she almost whimpered in agreement.

But he grasped her hand more tightly, as serious now as she had ever seen him. 

“You are so very young, and I cannot endure to think that one day you might reproach me with stealing your youth. With justice! It would be entirely understandable if you do not wish to be a mother at eighteen. There are balls and parties and all manner of things that you have not yet experienced, and I do not wish to deprive you of anything. And so, if you do indeed feel that way, I would desire to know, before we are married, before it is too late, so that pregnancy might be avoided.”

“How?” asked Pen devastatingly.

It was his turn to blush a little, as he said, “I cannot tell you now, my love, but I assure you I am talking of something quite simple and easy, and not unpleasant or painful in any way. You know, I hope, that I would never do anything to hurt you.”

She knew it in her heart, and she told him so. This conversation had taken a turn she could never have anticipated, and she thought that he was quite right: ladies and gentlemen did not commonly discuss such topics, but she could see that in a more rational society they should. There was a different kind of excitement in knowing that it was his intention they should share such frankness. She was emboldened in her turn to ask him a question.

“But how do YOU feel about this, Richard? You must be conscious of some pressure, for I am sure your family must want you to have an heir; it must be why they tried to marry you to Miss Brandon. But what are your own feelings?”

“It’s perfectly true, that was their reason, but there is no urgency to the matter. I am not quite in my dotage yet. As for me, a few weeks ago I would have said that the very idea of children horrified me, but that is not so now. Say rather that the idea of being married to a woman I did not love and having children with her was distasteful to me. Now that I have found you, I can imagine nothing more wonderful than to be the father of your children, Pen. And your heart is so warm, I can imagine that one day you will be an entirely delightful mother, when you are ready. But it doesn’t have to be this instant!”

She chuckled, to cover her deep emotion, then took a deep breath and said, “I cannot pretend I have not thought of this, Richard, so am I pleased you have said it. I have very decided opinions on the topic, in fact.”

He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, and waited for her to go on. 

“I’ve always known that my life would have been quite different if my parents had had other children. I had a very happy childhood until my papa died, but I was lonely, and always wished for company. And once he was gone, my situation was quite desperate. I had to live with the Griffins, and none of that would have happened, or at least it would not have been so bad, if I had not been an only child. My mother, too, lost all her family in the Terror, you know, and I am not sure if you are aware that Aunt Almeria is only my father’s half-sister, as my grandmother remarried after my grandfather died. So I really do have no-one.”

“You have me, now,” he said, “and I love you more than you can yet comprehend.”

She smiled at him and blinked away sudden tears. “I know you do, Richard, and I love you too. It seems like a dream, that we have found each other! But even before I met you, and before I had any idea what love was, I’ve always hoped for a family of my own, a big family, while I am young, and now I wish for it all the more. It’s one of the reasons I did not want to marry Fred, for I just could not imagine… And I don’t believe in waiting, because I have seen too much of what happens. People die, Richard, when you least expect it, and others are left alone. I would love to have your baby, in fact lots of babies, as soon as possible.”

Her answer was entirely unexpected, and quite took his breath away with its honesty. “Oh, my dearest!” he said, “I desire nothing more than to make a home and a family for you, where you are loved and valued as you deserve, and as you have not been for many years. It is my most sincere wish to make you happy, and if you want babies – lots of babies – then you shall have them, if indeed it is in my power to give them to you. Of course I understand what you want, and why you want it. But there is no going back once set on this course, Pen - are you SURE you will not change your mind? I do not say this for myself, please believe me, but for you.”

“Quite sure, Richard. I am persuaded that balls and parties and even adventures are all very well in their way, and I am sure that we will share so many of them, but what I most want is a home and a family of my own, with you.”

“Then you shall have it!” he said, his voice uneven with emotion, and he took her in his arms.   


Lady Luttrell, returning from her extremely tedious duty visit in Bloomsbury, had been informed by the hotel concierge that a gentleman visitor had awaited her in her suite this past twenty minutes, and was careful to make a surprising amount of noise as she took off her bonnet and pelisse in her elegant bedchamber, even going so far as to knock over her bedside candlestick with a loud clatter and an exclamation of annoyance. The role of a chaperone, she reflected wryly, was an onerous one, and one which she could not flatter herself she had performed with any notable success. Still: the wedding was tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyer would have hated this chapter. But she created such a considerate character in Sir Richard that I absolutely refuse to believe he would have married Pen and left the matter of conception up to chance. Unlike several other Heyer heroes (looking at YOU, Vidal, Worth and Damerel) he has a pretty modern understanding of consent, and this surely includes consent to pregnancy. And the rather unreliable (not to mention messy) method of contraception favoured by Simon, Duke of Hastings, is, one hopes, out of the question. Everything I've read suggests that condoms were only used to prevent disease, but I can't see that anyone can be absolutely sure of that from this distance.  
> As for Pen's views on the matter, I invite you to remember the touching little scene in The Corinthian when she finds out that Sir Richard has a nephew. She's interested in his family, and in the idea of family, as she doesn’t have one herself. And remember her behaviour on the stagecoach, when she plays with the small boy with adenoids, and is keen to discuss the fellow passenger's sick child. (She's not like Leonie, for instance, who is terrified of babies.) Heyer handles it very lightly, but she's had an awful, lonely time of it for the last five years.


	12. A Wedding in Mayfair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last!

Sir Richard and his bride used their special licence to be married very quietly in Wren’s St James’s Church close by the Corinthian’s home, and his sister had offered to hold a small wedding breakfast afterwards in her house in Berkeley Square. 

So now Sir Richard stood at the altar, in a new coat by Weston that fit his powerful shoulders and broad chest superbly, with his best man Cedric Brandon at his side. The bridegroom found himself surprisingly nervous, and wondered that he had never observed before that Cedric’s endless chatter was extremely irritating to his sensibilities. Cedric’s mockery on the subject of his marriage was not quite to his taste today, meant in harmless jest though he knew it was. Mr Brandon now pulled out his fob watch, peered at it and said, “I hope when it comes to it she don’t mean to leave you standing, Ricky! After all, the chit does have previous form for bolting! Elope is her middle name!” 

Cedric then caught sight of the expression on Sir Richard’s face, and wisely bethought him of a more agreeable topic. “Meant to say, dear old boy, that I have had the chance to tell m’father of the debt he owes you over hushing up that bad business with Beverley. Not the place to speak of it, but when he’s in his right senses he is fully sensible of the devilish scandal that might have come out, if not for you. You won’t be hearing any word of the Melissa nonsense from him, I assure you, nor will my sisters be spreading any gossip about her being ill-used.”

Sir Richard’s face relaxed a little. “I am obliged to you, Ceddie. I am very sorry for him and for your poor mother. I have written to them, of course, as well as to Melissa, but I thought it not quite the thing to visit, in these exceedingly awkward circumstances.”

Cedric waved an airy hand. “M’mother is prostrate, no denying it, but as for the rest of us - ! Beverley was a dashed unpleasant fellow, y’know, and in the end we shall all be better off without him! Would have brought us all to rack and ruin, I expect, if he’d lived!”

Sir Richard smiled wryly at this lack of brotherly devotion, and pulled out his own fob watch for the hundredth time.

The wait seemed endless, but at last Lady Luttrell came quietly down the aisle and slipped into the front pew, signalling that the bride had arrived and they could begin. Lady Wyndham was weeping audibly, but Louisa hushed her and smiled sympathetically at her brother, a little misty-eyed herself.

Pen had asked George to give her away, and so he proceeded down the aisle with her on his arm, his little daughters serious behind them in their best gowns. He was bursting with pride and beaming with happiness, resplendent in a morning coat of such exaggerated cut that in any other circumstances Sir Richard could scarcely have borne to look at it. Today, however, he did not care; George could have come to the wedding in fancy dress as the Emperor of China and he would not have blinked.

George stopped beside Sir Richard, and placed Pen’s hand on his arm, then stepped away, brushing aside a manly tear as he went to sit beside his wife and mother-in-law. Lady Wyndham was still weeping copiously, dressed in a trailing gown and shawls that had something of a funereal aspect about them. She had for the most part accustomed herself to the idea of the marriage, no doubt greatly aided by Louisa’s revelations about the staggering extent of Pen’s wealth, but that did not mean she was prepared to forgo an opportunity to extract the maximum amount of drama from the situation. She took George’s arm in a surprisingly powerful grip, and clung to the sleeve of his new coat, much to his dismay.

Richard reached out and took Pen’s hand in a strong clasp. She was dressed in a simple muslin gown of pale yellow, her golden curls crowned with a wreath of summer flowers. She stood beside him and he felt as though his heart would burst with love for her.

The ceremony proceeded with its familiar words, and Richard and Pen pronounced their parts clearly, and without hesitation. Soon it was done, and the bridegroom put back Pen’s lace veil, and looked into her eyes for the first time that day. She smiled up at him with so much love and trust and laughter that his heart turned over. “My darling, my dearest love!” he murmured, and kissed her as though they had been alone together.

“It is sobering to recall,” said Lady Luttrell drily to Lady Trevor as they walked out into the sunlight, “that they have been acquainted with each other for barely a fortnight!”

********

The wedding breakfast had been a great success, reflected Louisa with satisfaction a few hours later. The bridegroom had been handsome and attentive, the bride had blushed charmingly and looked up at her new husband with huge, adoring eyes, and even Cedric had not become too disguised, and had kept his speech mercifully short, and relatively free of vulgarity. Lady Wyndham – the Dowager Lady Wyndham – had stopped crying at long last, and joined in the toasts with as good a grace as she could muster. Now the guests were relatively subdued, tired by the emotion of the day, chatting quietly, and it was time for the newlyweds to depart. There was a more general sense of parting, too, as Cedric was soon to join his new regiment, the elder Lady Wyndham was preparing for her annual sojourn in her favourite resort, Worthing, and Louisa herself would soon be leaving for Brighton with her family.

Farewells were said, the wedding carriage was procured, and the bridal couple departed for the short journey to St James’s Square in a flurry of good wishes.

Sir Richard drew his wife into a loose embrace, and leaned back against the elegant squabs of the carriage. “Thank heaven that’s over at last,” he breathed. “I love them all very dearly, and I am heartily glad to wave goodbye to them all.”

Pen leaned back against his broad chest, and said, “Oh, Richard, everyone has been so kind to me, but I could not have endured ten more minutes in their company! I think I shall not get married ever again, for it is a great bother!”

He laughed in sheer delight at being alone with her at last. “My lady, have I told you how beautiful you are, and how proud I am to have you by my side?” 

She chuckled, and said, “Yes, not half an hour ago, but you can do so again if you wish!”

“I do wish, and I also wish to kiss you most comprehensively, but I am sadly aware that we will pull up outside our house in a moment, so I shall not even begin. Also, Pen, although that flower affair is excessively becoming, it does not make it easy for your lawful husband to embrace you properly without risking injury.”

The carriage did in fact draw up in St James’s Square at that moment, and Sir Richard sprang down to assist his bride to step out of it. The entrance to the mansion was garlanded with flowers, and the whole domestic staff was standing in the street and on the steps, ready to greet their master and new mistress, almost as if, Sir Richard reflected, some small page boy had run there as fast as his feet would carry him from Lady Trevor’s house, to warn the staff that the wedding carriage was approaching. 

There was a great deal of congratulation and good wishes, and the assembly burst into cheers when Sir Richard picked Pen up effortlessly in his arms and carried her over the threshold into her new home.

Presently they extricated themselves from the throng of well-wishers and found themselves alone at last, in the courtyard garden at the back of the house. This was a pleasant spot, a sun trap, fragrant with lavender and old roses. Sir Richard led Pen to a cushioned arbour, where refreshments had been set for them. He shrugged out of his tight coat, and pulled the neck-cloth from his throat, disordering his immaculate appearance in a way most unlike him. Then he turned to Pen with a determined glint in his eye. “I suppose this wretched thing is secured to you with pins?” he enquired. “Yes, I see them. Keep still!” 

Soon the flower wreath was removed, and laid aside, along with the lace veil, and Pen looked more herself again. She sat beside him in the shady arbour, and laid her head on his shoulder, heaving an enormous sigh of relief.

Sir Richard poured them each a glass of champagne, and they drank, Pen wrinkling her nose a little at the bubbles. Then he took her glass, and set it aside along with his, saying firmly, “And NOW I will kiss you properly, as I have been waiting to do all day, perhaps even since the first day I met you!”

“Have you never kissed me properly before, then?” Pen said in surprise, growing suddenly breathless as she remembered his lips teasing hers apart, his tongue dipping into her mouth. “It has always seemed so to me!”

He smiled down at her, his eyes full of love. “It has always seemed to ME that a horse might bolt, or a Bow Street Runner arrest one of us, or someone come into the room, or some confounded thing or other would occur to stop me kissing you as I wished to. And now I say, no more of that! You are my wife now, and I shall kiss you till Christmas if we please, and no-one can stop us!”

And so he did. She realised after a moment, though, that he was holding himself in check. She was his now, and he was hers; nothing could prevent them from claiming each other. It would be tonight. But there was no impatience. That might come later, when it was time. There was no urgency in his kiss, no sense that he wanted more just then – he kissed her as though he was very willing to go on doing so for hours, until it grew dark, until dawn broke. He whispered butterfly kisses along the line of her lips, and each dimple, and her jaw. He counted each freckle on her nose, and kissed it. He kissed her soft pink earlobes, and nibbled them, but very gently. And then back to her mouth again, murmuring endearments between kisses, teasing her with his tongue. And so she relaxed into his embrace and gave herself up to his lips with complete abandon, kissing him back, nipping at his lower lip with her teeth, running her newly bold fingers over his cheeks and his chiselled jawline, understanding now the difference between this, and the few hurried, urgent embraces they had snatched in the past. His warm hands were on her body, and she was intensely aware of them, but only to hold her, for now. He was restraining himself, for her sake; not stroking, not caressing, not exploring. Yet.

At last she was compelled to pull away a little, and hide her face in his shirt, for the world was spinning around her. She could not be sure, but she thought it was the kisses, and not the champagne.

She raised her head shyly and told him so, and he laughed at her, and said in a husky voice, “You have witchcraft in your lips, Pen! You are entirely adorable! Has the world stopped whirling? Then kiss me again!”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I'd thought up the excellent pun on Pen's name, but I didn't - I saw it on a Heyer-related blog post years ago. I can't find it now, but if it was you, or you know who it was, please tell me so I can give due credit.


	13. Well, Brat?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the wedding night. You may recall that Sir Richard was being quite restrained in the last chapter. Well, this can't last...

The heavy brocade curtains of the large bedchamber had not been perfectly drawn the night before – perhaps the person who had closed them had had his mind on something else entirely – and so the morning sun’s rays crept across the floor, and creeping higher still they struck the face of the young lady asleep in the elegant French bed, and she stirred. For a moment, drowsy, she was confused. She had never slept in this bed or this room before, she was sure. And then she remembered where and who she was, and turned on her side to see her husband – her husband! – sleeping beside her. The sheet was pushed down to expose his naked back, and she studied his superbly muscled body with a completely frank gaze for the first time. His broad shoulders and slim waist owed nothing to tailoring or padding, she saw now. His hair, the colour of dark honey, spread across the pillow in wild disorder, and his lashes, every bit as long as her own, brushed his cheek, giving him an air of vulnerability that she only occasionally glimpsed in him when he was awake, and that she believed he never showed to others. 

The thought of how very short their acquaintance was, and of all the intimacies that had passed between them last night, made her blush rosily even though she was unobserved, and she buried her hot cheeks in her pillow and eventually dozed again.

They had stayed in the garden as the shadows grew longer, talking, kissing and feeding each other cake and fruit. They were joined at one point by an enormous ginger cat, which Sir Richard said was the tyrant of his stables and bosom friend of his horses, but the creature stalked away disdainfully when it became plain that they had no food that was to his taste.

At length her new husband had said, “My love, let’s go to bed,” and she had put her hand in his as he led her up the grand staircase to her new bedchamber. She knew the room had been unused since Sir Richard had bought the house, and refurbished in the greatest possible haste, but it seemed lovely to her, with its harmonious shades of green and blue and the beautiful objects of Chinese and Dresden porcelain that he had chosen for her with great care over the last few days.

She stood in the middle of the elegant chamber in her wedding dress and looked up at him. Even at such a delicate moment, even when her blood was pounding in her veins and her legs trembling, her wicked sense of fun could not help but find something comical, even ridiculous, in the situation, and so her eyes sparkled with mirth.

He looked down at her in complete comprehension, his lips twitching. “Will we never be serious when we should, Pen? You should be full of maidenly reserve, and I overcome by a manly consciousness of your tender feminine sensibility and the enormous responsibility laid upon my shoulders. Such a moment is not meant to be AMUSING! Come here!”

She stood in front of him, and put her hands on his chest, looking up into his face, and what she saw there drove the laughter away: his mask of control had started to slip, and the naked hunger beneath it was beginning to blaze in his eyes. He cupped her cheek in his hand, and rubbed his thumb over her lower lip, swollen now from his kisses and sensitised to an almost unbearable degree. She gasped at the sensation, and he smiled wolfishly. “I have been very patient, Pen, but I do not think I can wait much longer. May I undress you?”

Her swollen lips were parted still and her pupils were dilated so that her dark blue eyes looked almost black. She was breathing hard, and so was he. “I wish you would, Richard!”

He laughed softly and took her gently by the shoulders, turning her around, so that he could deftly unbutton the myriad delicate pearl fastenings at the back of her yellow gown. It was quite high at the back, and as he undid each tiny button he pressed a soft kiss to the flesh that it revealed, brushing his lips along the edge of her chemise when he reached it. She shivered at the unfamiliar but delicious feel of his mouth on her bare skin, each new place he caressed a place that had never been touched before. Presently the fabric slipped from her shoulders and pooled to the ground, and she stepped out of it and turned to face him. 

He untied her crisp petticoats and pushed the supporting straps down, tugging at them until she was free. It occurred to Pen that surely he had done this before, of course he must have done, but it was a fleeting impression, soon swept away by sensation. She was trembling a little as she stood before him in her stockings, chemise and stays, and he was still fully clothed. That seemed unfair. 

He took her in his arms and pulled her close, crushing her breasts in the thin chemise against his chest, murmuring, “Are you cold, Pen? Or is it something else that makes you quiver so?” 

She shook her head and said, “You know it is not that I am cold! Do not tease me, Richard!”

“I promise I will not tease you. What would you have me do? This, perhaps? I seem to recall that you showed every sign of enjoyment when I once did this…” He ran his hands down her body, as he had done before, and once again his big palms cupped her buttocks, his thumbs and fingers splayed out across the sensitive flesh, squeezing, and he lifted her and pulled her closer, closer against him. He was as hard as she remembered, and she moaned yes, and wrapped her bare arms around his neck, pressing herself into him.

“It seems to me,” he whispered in her ear, “that we are both still wearing altogether too many clothes. Will you help me rectify this sad situation?”

He released her – he had to – and she helped him strip off his coat and waistcoat, and pull his shirt over his head. His torso was superbly muscled, his chest dusted with soft whorls of brown hair which, she could not help noticing, narrowed to a thin line that arrowed down to disappear intriguingly below the waistband of his pantaloons. Her eyes followed the inviting line – if she wasn’t meant to, it shouldn’t be there, surely – and she blushed at the evidence of his arousal pressing against the all-too-revealing clinging fabric.

“Better!” he said, “But still too many clothes!”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her, not gently this time but fiercely, his tongue slipping in and out of her till she was dizzy, then said, “If you will go to the water closet – which is through that door – and relieve yourself, so that you may be comfortable and have nothing to distract you, I will engage to remove these damned awkward pantaloons before you reappear, and you will find that we will go on splendidly after that.”

She was back in a few moments, having discarded her slippers, garters and stockings in the bathroom, and found him standing, stripped, by the big bed, lighting the candles in the silver chandelier. She wanted to look at him – could not imagine where she could be expected to look if not at him, naked and magnificent - but was too shy to do so quite openly. 

“Let me unfasten these stays. I am sure they are very becoming, but we will do better without them!" He stood behind her and feathered tiny kisses over her neck and shoulders while his clever fingers undid the laces and pushed the straps down, and she sighed in relief as he pulled the stiff garment away from her and tossed it away. Through the fine, almost transparent lawn of her chemise, she was sure she could feel the heat of his body behind her. Yes. He pulled her against the full length of him and splayed his hand across her belly, bunching up the fine fabric in his hand while he kissed the tiny golden curls at the nape of her neck, nipping them between his teeth. He tugged up the hem of her chemise, impatient suddenly, to bare her bottom, and then for the first time they were skin to skin. She gasped as his hardness pressed against her.

He turned her to face him and pulled at the drawstring of her chemise, loosening it so that he could drag it over her head and cast it aside. Then he picked her up effortlessly, his arm under her long legs, and carried her over to the bed, just a few steps, then laid her down on the linen sheets and climbed in beside her.

Time stopped. 

Sir Richard propped himself on one elbow and looked down at her where she lay naked and flushed at his side. His gaze was a caress. “You take my breath away,” he said softly. “You always have.”

He traced the line of her cheek with an elegant finger. “Do you remember, brat, that first night at the inn,” he said, “when the landlord proposed that we shared a bedchamber, and I was obliged to entertain Jimmy Yarde instead?”

The old endearment, used in such a context, made her smile again, as did the memory. “Of course I do,” she whispered.

“Well, do you know, Pen Wyndham, that I have been dreaming of this moment ever since then? That night, and every night after it, instead of sending you off to your lonely chamber and retiring to mine, my strong desire was to follow you in, lock the door securely behind me, strip you of your shirt and breeches, then toss you on the bed and kiss every inch of you.”

His long fingers followed the line of her neck, and his lips followed his fingers, brushing across the hectic pulse that beat at the base of her throat. 

“I...I had no notion of such a thing!” She was astonished she could still speak.

“I know you did not, my angel. But ever since you fell asleep against my shoulder in that appalling coach, and woke, and smiled at me so enchantingly, I have longed for this. I felt at that moment as though we were the only two people in the world suddenly, as though we were in bed together, or damn well should be, and now at last we are.”

In their downward journey, his fingers found her breasts. Small, high, perfect. Her pink nipples were hard already, and he circled them with a finger, and then bent his head, as she gasped, and drew one into his mouth, and sucked, gently at first and then harder, his fingers teasing the other. He realised suddenly that this left him a hand free: wasn’t nature wonderful? And he reached down to caress her flat belly, and then further, to tangle in the golden curls – they were golden, he’d tormented himself some nights by wondering, and of course it wouldn’t matter if they weren’t, but they were.

Pen buried both her hands in his tawny locks, the better to pull his head against her breasts and hold it there. His tongue and his fingers were creating the most extraordinary sensations, and someone was moaning – presumably her, because his mouth, she could see and feel, was fully occupied. She found she was arching her back, and lifting her hips to him as if in invitation. Then he was there, the precise spot, rubbing his fingers over the little swollen nub between her nether lips, and then he wasn’t, he was finding her most secret place, and slipping a finger into it, good God, and out again. And then back to the nub again, sliding smoothly in her wetness, and each time she didn’t know which was best, both were, and his mouth and his other hand were still busy at her breasts, sucking her harder, tweaking her, and then it was all too much, and she came in great waves of pleasure, clenching on his fingers, writhing, pressing down on them, gasping, “Richard!”

“Oh, my love!”

His mouth was on hers now, his tongue deep in her, and his hands were urgently caressing her body, her buttocks, her thighs. He dragged his lips from hers reluctantly. “Wrap your legs around me!” he told her. And then after a moment of sudden sharp discomfort, “Take me into you, hold me. I won’t move for a moment, till you are comfortable. You have me. Christ knows, you have me. Hold me tight.”

He paused with an enormous effort, to look down at her. They were still for a second, joined, panting hard. “Am I hurting you?”

“No. No, I promise you aren’t, my love, don’t stop.”

He didn’t stop. “God, that feels so good! My darling, my dearest, dearest love!” His control had held for so long, but it was slipping away from him, and he began to thrust in her, and she ran her hands down his back, and grasped his buttocks, locking her long legs around him, and moving with him by instinct. He was kissing her, her mouth, her face, and she was responding just as eagerly.

At last he shuddered and cried out, and buried his face in her neck. There were tears on his cheeks, she thought, so she held him, and he murmured disjointed endearments into her hair, and then rolled over, carrying her with him, to lie in his arms. She rested her head on his chest, and traced the soft brown curls with a lazy finger, and he lay still, liking it. After a while she looked up at him, a dimple peeping, and their eyes met, blue and grey.

“Well, brat?” he asked.

“Very well, sir. I was just thinking…I’m glad I didn’t marry Fred!”

"Or Piers?"

"Or Piers. Or anyone but you."

“So am I!”

******************

She slept with his arm about her, and woke, and dozed again, and now it was morning, and she raised her face from her pillow and lay looking at him once more while he still slept. She saw his eyelids flicker, and knew that he was awake before he rolled over and murmured, “Do you like what you see, my lady?”

“I do, sir!” she said a little shyly. She thought he might kiss her, but instead he took her hand in his and rubbed her knuckles across his cheek. 

“I must shave before I am fit to kiss you again, my angel,” he said. 

She caressed his stubbled cheek, fascinated to see how strong the growth was in so short a time. “I do not think you would care for me with a beard,” he said, smiling. “I grew one once when I was younger, for a bet, and it was a most revolting sight.”

“I cannot imagine such a thing!”

He pulled her into his strong arms, wrapping the covers around them and lying back languorously with her head on his chest. 

She hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Richard, there is something I have been meaning to say to you, but I have had no opportunity. I cannot help thinking what a fool I was, imagining I could run away from Aunt Almeria and marry Piers, just because we were friends as children. It was quite ridiculous of me and I am mortified to think of it. I can’t imagine how you ever came to fall in love with me - surely you must have considered me a complete imbecile!”

He took her hand and held it against his heart. “My dearest imbecile!” he teased her. “Of course I could not help but feel that you were mistaken, to put it no more strongly, to think that your childhood notion of marrying Luttrell would still be in HIS mind five years later. And I soon began to pray that I was right, for I wanted you for myself. But I cannot truly describe it as folly, even now, Pen, for what else could you do?”

She raised her chin and looked up at him enquiringly.

“I do not suppose that your aunt would ever have consented to your coming out in society, for fear you might meet a suitor who took your fancy more than Cousin Fred, which would hardly have been difficult. You must have realised soon enough that you might run away with any gazetted fortune-hunter you happened to encounter and be no worse off, for what else was Fred, after all? So what choice did you have? No-one was going to rescue you. You could try to resist, against all the pressure they could bring to bear; you could accept him; you could run away; or you could throw yourself in the river. I cannot see any other possibilities.”

Pen shuddered a little at this, and snuggled deeper into her husband’s embrace. “That is a very sobering thought. I suppose I clung to the idea of Piers as my saviour for fear of facing how desperate my situation really was. You do know I never really cared for him, don’t you, Richard?”

“Of course I do, my darling. And yet you might very easily have married him, had he not been head over ears in love with Lydia Daubenay. For he is not a young man of very powerful resolution, and your character is much stronger, so that you might very well have swept him along with your plans. I might never have met you, or met you only as Mrs Luttrell. And that truly is a sobering thought!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the cat may have wandered in from Busman's Honeymoon. Heyer was more of a dog person.


	14. Below Stairs

When Lord and Lady Trevor speculated, as they often did in these days after Sir Richard’s wedding, on how Pen would accustom herself to married life, and the sudden and dramatic change in her circumstances, Louisa was always adamant that her brother’s bride would find one of her greatest difficulties in learning to run a household. She simply could not see, she told George, how a motherless chit of seventeen could command and order a mansion full of servants, or gain their respect and obedience.

George was not slow to recall that Louisa herself had not been more than nineteen or twenty on the occasion of their own marriage, but she pooh-poohed this, and reminded her lord that SHE had been bred up to her position by her mother from her earliest years, and had experienced no qualms whatsoever in assuming command. George could hardly deny the truth of this, as Louisa was commanding by nature, but said comfortably that he was sure that Richard’s staff were well trained, and well disposed, and would make everything easy, and that, however awkward it might be at first, Pen would settle into her new life, over time, and with Richard’s help.

Had they but known it, they both did Pen far less than justice. Louisa had grown up in her parents’ household surrounded by servants, indulged by them, to be sure, but always under the rule of Sir Edward and Lady Wyndham. Pen, though, had lost her mother in infancy, and had been raised largely by servants, and her father’s housekeeper had become almost a second mother to her. She was accustomed, as perhaps Louisa was not, to see the servants amongst whom she lived really and fully as people, with their own lives and concerns. Because she had spent so much time below stairs, she knew far more of the intimate workings of a great house than Louisa ever would: she knew what time her female servants arose, and how hard they worked, and she knew where the real power lay.

It did not take her long to realise that a web of relationships, ties of blood and of marriage, linked her new home to those of her sister-in-law and her mother-in-law. Sir Richard’s housekeeper, Mrs Croft, was sister to Lady Trevor’s butler, and her own new abigail Kemp – a pleasant, sensible young woman in her early twenties, whom Pen had liked on sight – was granddaughter to the Dowager’s elderly major domo. Gossip passed between the three households, when all were in Town, at a speed scarcely credible to outsiders, and for that reason if no other Pen could have been forgiven for being daunted by the prospect ahead of her.

In truth, she was not. 

Mrs Croft was surprised when her new mistress found her way to her inner sanctum to take tea and seedy cake with her, but flattered by the attention. That good woman, whose marital title was purely honorary, had gone as nursery-maid to the Wyndham establishment when barely twelve years old, and so her feelings for her master were a complex mixture of respect, affection, and an inner awareness of the fact that she had known him from the cradle, and would not take any of his nonsense, thank you, Master Richard, and no use using that smile on her, no matter who else it might work on. She was more than happy to share amusing stories of Sir Richard’s doings as a child, and Pen was delighted to listen. Mrs Croft was a warm-hearted woman, and very rapidly took the measure of her new lady, and the lonely little girl she must have been, not so long ago, stealing treats from the kitchen and getting under everyone’s feet as they tried to get their work done. 

In very short order, Sir Richard’s retainers became united in their positive opinion of their new mistress. They did not hold her youth and inexperience against her, for she treated them all with instinctive courtesy, and soon knew all their names, from lofty Porson down to the littlest scullery maid and boot boy. Indeed, even if they had not liked her on her own account, they would done so on Sir Richard’s, for it was plain to the dullest among them that she adored their master, and he her, and they could all see the dramatic change she had wrought in him. From Porson and Mrs Croft to Polly the housemaid, they had known that Sir Richard was lonely, and sensed that he was unhappy, disliked what they saw of his aimless, wasteful mode of life, and feared for his future, and for theirs.

For perhaps Pen’s greatest asset was who she was not. She was not Melissa Brandon. None of Sir Richard’s servants had been unaware of the goings-on that had preceded their master’s recent disappearance. They had known that Lady Wyndham and Lady Trevor were plotting a marriage of convenience, and the prospect of having to welcome Miss Brandon as their mistress had not been one which any of them had regarded with complaisance. Lady Saar and her children had been frequent guests in the old Wyndham house in Grosvenor Square before Sir Richard had set up his own establishment, and it was plain as a pikestaff what sort of woman Melissa was, and what sort of regime she would impose. Furthermore, no-one could be deluded enough to think that she had ever cared two pins for Sir Richard, or his happiness. 

“Miserable as sin, she would have made him, Mr Porson, and him the kindest, most considerate master anyone could wish for, and a husband any lady would be lucky to get!” said Mrs Croft vehemently one evening soon after the wedding. “What Milady and Miss Louisa can have been thinking -!”

Porson said nothing, but merely nodded gravely, and raised his glass in stately assent. He was, as Mrs Croft knew, well acquainted with Lord Saar’s personal valet, and had relayed to her many tales from that unfortunate individual of the elder Miss Brandon’s imperious manner, and of the fearsome temper she concealed beneath her glacial exterior. Sir Richard could have no real notion of how lucky he had been. His butler had heard all he wished to of the truly impressive scenes the young lady created when thwarted in any way, as when Sir Richard had failed to pay his much-anticipated call on her father quite recently. He had not yet been apprised of her reaction to the news of Sir Richard’s marriage, but he expected it to have been volcanic, and shuddered at the thought of what they had all been spared. The new Lady Wyndham seemed, by contrast, to be a sunny-natured young lady, who sang as she went about the house, with a smile and word of thanks for everyone, and unlikely, or so it seemed thus far, to contemplate hurling missiles at the heads of her relatives or domestics, as was all too common in the Brandon household.

“You might think that Her Ladyship had seen enough of an unhappy marriage between ill-suited persons, God rest Sir Edward’s poor gentle soul, not to want to force her only son into one!” continued Mrs Croft with a sniff.

This was undoubtedly true, though horribly indiscreet, and Porson judged it politic to divert his friend and colleague’s attention into safer channels. When all else failed, there was always the Mystery of the Lock of Hair. Porson had seen with his own eyes the stray golden lock found in the library on that never-to-be-forgotten morning, and had himself exhibited it to Lord and Lady Trevor, to their enormous and most gratifying astonishment. He had also been present at Sir Richard’s happy return, seen his sudden flashing smile when he had discovered the lock, discreetly set on his library desk, and watched him caress it for an unguarded second before he stowed it safely away in his pocket book. When Porson had admitted Sir Richard’s prospective bride to the house for the first time, it had been he who had first set eyes on her shining guinea-gold curls, and he who had instantly understood their significance. He had heard the tale that the pair had met in Somerset, but he did not credit it for a moment. The lock was plainly hers, and Sir Richard had gone in search of her, and found her, and won her! What puzzled him, however, was to know how the romantic pair had met, and how she had come to give up her lock of hair as a love token, for such it plainly was. This was a pleasurable avenue of speculation, and he and Mrs Croft never tired of it.

They still could not succeed in teasing out the matter of it, and the lady said at last, “Well, Mr Porson, whatever the truth of it may be, we can be sure it is nothing disreputable, for Sir Richard is a true gentleman, none more so.”

Mr Porson could only raise his glass in agreement once more, and toast the bride and groom.


	15. Persons in the Employ of the Bow Street Magistrates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The newly married couple receive some most unwelcome visitors.

A few days after the wedding, Sir Richard was sitting alone in his library, reading a lengthy and encouraging missive from his man of business regarding the progress of the plans for the refurbishment and staffing of Pen’s house in Somerset, which he intended to set aside for his wife’s approval. He and Pen had been riding in the Park earlier that morning, and he had left her luxuriating in her bath. He was feeling a great sense of well-being, which started to dissipate a little when his butler entered the room with an expression on his very correct countenance that made it clear to an intelligent observer that something was severely amiss. “Some men are here to see you, sir. Their names are – forgive me – Hodge and Gudgeon.”

Sir Richard raised an eyebrow in pained enquiry, and Porson’s expression of acute distress deepened even further. “Quite so, sir. If you will forgive me for saying so, I believe them to be – ah – persons in the employ of the Bow Street Magistrates.”

“Of course, Porson – Gudgeon is, I believe, the individual employed by Mr Brandon in the recovery of his mother’s stolen necklace. Show them in, if you please.”

Porson bowed, his face a mask of disapproval, and showed the visitors into the library with hauteur far greater than Sir Richard’s, calculated to inspire them with terror. Mr Gudgeon appeared to be fully sensible of the awkwardness of his situation, for he was as Sir Richard remembered him, a stolid individual whose face betrayed his extreme discomfort at being forced to intrude into the home of a member of the Quality. Mr Hodge, however, was a person of quite another stamp. He was younger, very soberly dressed, somehow having the air of a lay preacher about him, and as soon as Sir Richard set eyes on his high colour and expression of suppressed rage, he knew that there was trouble brewing.

Sir Richard preserved his cool exterior, however, and enquired with a lifted eyebrow, “How may I help you, gentlemen?”

Mr Gudgeon appeared most discomfited, and shuffled his feet to and fro, but Mr Hodge addressed Sir Richard in a manner that, though superficially correct, conveyed very clearly his contempt for him, and all of his ilk.

“I take it, sir, I am correct in thinking that you are Sir Richard Wyndham, of this address?”

Sir Richard nodded. “Yes.”

“It is my duty to tell you, sir, that we have been in receipt of an allegation – I may say, a very serious allegation – that concerns you!”

Sir Richard said nothing, his expression one of faint interest as he waited for further elucidation.

Mr Gudgeon judged that it was time for him to take a hand in this very embarrassing matter, before his hot-headed colleague said something that was bound to put up this fine gentleman’s back, and lead to consequences too horrible to contemplate. “What it is, sir, we have had a complaint at Bow Street from a member of the public, who alleges that he witnessed a crime taking place – an outrage, sir, of a most disturbing nature, on the public highway.” At this, Mr Hodge allowed himself to give utterance to a very audible snort of disgust.

Sir Richard’s face continued as expressionless as ever, though he might very well have exclaimed, if he had had less firm a control of himself, The devil! So it’s that, is it?

“This individual, sir, was travelling on the roof of the London stage from Bristol when it was stopped by a gentleman driving a curricle, who insisted on extracting from the vehicle a young lad, what he described as a fugitive. This seeming a most unusual circumstance to the roof passengers, they not unnaturally looked back when the stage had proceeded on its way, to be confronted with a shocking sight.” 

“A most appalling sight, sir!” cut in Mr Hodge, unable to restrain his fury any longer. “The gentleman – if such you may call him – had seized the young lad in his foul clutches, and was proceeding to…to assault him!” Here Mr Hodge broke off, overcome by some strong emotion, and mopped his heated brow with a large handkerchief.”

That’s torn it, thought both Mr Gudgeon and Sir Richard, with almost identical fervour.

“And what has this extraordinary story to do with me?” asked Sir Richard coldly.

Mr Gudgeon rushed in to forestall any further inflammatory comments. “In the normal run of things, sir, we would not be able to take this accusation any further, not having any way of identifying the gentleman in question. But as luck would have it, when I took the complaint in the course of my duties and heard the description of the two parties involved, they put me very much in mind, sir, of yourself, and of the young gentleman known as your nephew, the which I had the arresting of just a fortnight or so ago in Bristol, only that he gave me the slip. And so I was obliged to find out your direction and come and interview you.” It was plain from Mr Gudgeon’s expression that he greatly regretted his moment of shining professional diligence, and that he would, if such an occasion were to arise again, maintain the better part of valour, and keep his mouth firmly closed about what he had realised. But it was too late now.

Sir Richard decided that there was no brazening this out, and walked across the room to tug at the bell-rope. When Porson appeared, he said calmly, “Porson, if her ladyship should have finished dressing, would you have her maid ask her to join me in the library?” The butler bowed, his countenance making his opinion of these proceedings very clear, and left on his disagreeable errand.

Mr Hodge was appalled that a member of the Quality should be so brass-faced as to involve his wedded wife in such a hideous imbroglio, and his overheated mind strayed to thoughts of Hellfire Clubs, and nameless orgies. Was he about to be confronted by a modern Messalina? Mr Gudgeon was not troubled by such torrid fancies, but he could imagine only too well what kind of frosty-faced fashion plate Sir Richard was likely to be married to, and so he awaited the lady’s arrival with the deepest possible apprehension, and in a most uncomfortable silence.

They were both astonished, then, when the library door opened to admit a youthful lady with a charming, open countenance, and a pair of large and guileless blue eyes. She was fashionably dressed, it was true, in a day gown of figured blue muslin with a becoming little starched collar, but she was not at all what the officers were expecting to see. To add a further touch of unreality to the scene, she was clutching to her bosom a large, ragged-eared ginger cat of villainous aspect, which clung to her shoulder possessively, and glared at the company with an air of the utmost malevolence.

Sir Richard raised his quizzing glass at this sight, and Pen explained, her eyes twinkling, “Buonaparte had left me another gift outside my bedchamber door, which he then tried to dismember most revoltingly while poor Polly was attempting to tidy it away. He scratched her, defending his prize, and so I had to remove him before she went off into strong hysterics. If I let go of him, he will go straight back upstairs.”

“Buonaparte?” Sir Richard enquired with an admirably straight face.

“That’s his name, I conjecture because he is stout and imperious. Jem told me.” She smiled at him ingenuously. “Jem is your stable boy, you must know. He grew up in the Foundling Home, and hopes to be a groom one day.” She interpreted his expression correctly, and said with a rueful smile, “You know how it is with me, Richard! I can’t help it if people tell me things!”

Sir Richard sighed and said, “I understand now that I am fated to live in a house in which each one of the male inhabitants, including those with four legs, is entirely besotted with my wife! But let us be serious, my love. I must inform you that these men have come to arrest me, I infer, for an assault on a young man that is supposed to have occurred on the Bristol road some weeks ago, and which they believe was committed by me.”

Mr Hodge had now decided that Sir Richard must be a truly satanic figure, a corrupter of innocent youth of both sexes, and he was horrified by the nonchalance with which he made his explanation to his poor young wife. He had heard a great deal of the scandalous doings of Lord Byron, and the Prince Regent, and all the evils of high society, and now he perceived that it was all too true.

Both Bow Street Runners would have expected the young lady to exhibit a great deal of shock at this most dreadful news, and perhaps to go into a swoon. They could neither of them imagine why Sir Richard had informed his wife of their accusation, nor what he could expect her reaction to be. What they did not expect was for the lady to turn to Mr Gudgeon and say, “Oh, I thought I knew you! I must say, you seem to have a positive mania for arresting members of this family. I don’t think you should arrest my husband, though; he would not care for it, I am quite sure. I certainly did not.”

Mr Gudgeon had been examining Lady Wyndham’s face and hair with a narrow, incredulous scrutiny as she spoke, and he now exclaimed, much to his colleague’s confusion, “You! You… You’re not a boy!”

She cast down her large, candid eyes and admitted, “I’m really not, you know, which was why I ran from you in Bristol. I felt sure that a great deal of awkwardness would ensue if my sex were discovered. And as you must now know from Mr Brandon, I was quite innocent of any involvement in the theft of the necklace, and the true culprit has been arrested, and is to be tried at the assizes.”

Sir Richard could only admire the perfect innocence and shining honesty of her countenance as she gazed earnestly at the bemused Runners and explained, “I know it’s excessively shocking, but I had only disguised myself as a boy for safety’s sake, when I ran away from home to avoid the most terrible ill-treatment. I encountered Sir Richard by chance and he most chivalrously helped me, and pretended to be my uncle, but we had a misunderstanding, which is why I was on the stagecoach, and then he came to find me, and proposed marriage, and kissed me, and…and that was what those people saw. He was not assaulting me, I assure you. And in any case now we are married, and all is well!” She beamed at them, though Buonaparte still seemed deeply unimpressed. 

Mr Hodge appeared to have suffered some sort of derangement of his senses, and could be heard to mutter to himself wildly, “Sodom and Gomorrah! Work of the devil!” but Mr Gudgeon was entirely convinced, and wished only to make his exit from Sir Richard’s mansion without loss of time. He stammered a series of inarticulate apologies to the pair, and assured them that they would be hearing no more of the matter.

The two Runners found themselves in the street in very short order, to Mr Gudgeon’s great relief, and he dragged his intransigent colleague away, ignoring his protests. “Since the cove who witnessed this here farrago does not know the name of the gentleman in question, and isn’t going to learn it off of me, nor off of you if you have the sense you were born with, mum’s the word! We will make sure to forget all about this affair. You might think it strange, and I might think it strange, but there’s nothing against the law as far as I can tell. And I for one am going for a pint of heavy wet, and what you choose to do, Ezekiel Hodge, is entirely your own business! Go and pray on it, if you must!”

Meanwhile Sir Richard and Pen were left alone, to collapse in helpless laughter as soon as their unwelcome visitors had left the room. Buonaparte leapt from Pen’s arms, deeply affronted, plumped himself down on the Persian rug in front of the fireplace, and set to washing his nether parts most thoroughly, with an air that Sir Richard could only regard as deliberately insolent. 

“Pen, you were absolutely magnificent!” said the Corinthian, his voice still unsteady with mirth. “You apprehended the situation in an instant, in the most impressive way, and reacted perfectly. I shall never forget the Runners’ faces as long as I live. I would marry you again now if I could! And heaven knows I would very happily kiss you, but I will not do so while that revolting creature performs his odious ablutions in my library!”

“Buonaparte!” coaxed Pen. “Dear Buonaparte…!”

But Buonaparte, it transpired, shared his namesake’s pertinacity, and they were obliged at last to ring for Porson once more, to remove him. To the day’s unforgettable sights was added the vision of a very correct butler wrangling a most affronted feline.

"Ah, Porson!" said Sir Richard as they left the room. "I believe we have had enough visitors for today. We are not at home." 

Pen closed the door behind the ill-assorted pair, and leaned back against it, her eyes sparking with laughter. “I’m excessively glad you weren’t arrested, Richard.”

“So am I! And it is only thanks to you. Nothing I could have said or done would have routed them in such an impressive manner. We may laugh, Pen, but that was a dangerous moment.”

“I do not believe that they could do so very much in the absence of your victim. You cannot be convicted of assaulting someone who does not exist.”

“True… But my reputation!”

She laughed. “You should have thought of that, sir, before you kissed a youth so passionately in front of all those travellers!”

“And yet I cannot regret it for a moment. Can you?”

“How could I?” He sat down in his favourite large armchair, and she came to stand between his long legs. He put his arms about her and pulled her closer to him, his head resting between her breasts. She cradled it there, her fingers stroking through his hair. “I would probably not be here now, if you had not done it.”

"You might not be here now, my love. We would, I must suppose, not be married yet. But do not think for a moment that I would ever have let you go. I would have followed you to London, and braved Aunt Almeria, and persuaded you of my love for you."

He felt her quiver with laughter. "It may sound romantic, but can you imagine how excessively awkward it all would have been? I think this way is better." 

“Mmm…” he said, his voice muffled a little in the thin muslin of her gown. "I am sure you are right!" She was warm, and still slightly damp from her bath, and smelled wonderful. He fancied, close as he was, that he could see the outline of her nipples under her thin bodice, and he traced one with a long finger, seeing it grow harder, pressing against the material. He found it with his mouth, and sucked on it, softly at first and then harder, through the fabric, wetting it, and she made a soft sound in her throat, and held his head there, her body pressed against his. At length he murmured against her, “I am very glad indeed that you are here. And, indeed, that finally no-one else is. I believe my days of outraging public decency are over.”

“I'm not so sure about that, Richard. I can feel exactly how glad you are.”

“Can you?” He pulled her down onto his lap and embraced her, and she twined her arms about his neck. He took her chin in his hand, and brushed her lips with his, then sucked her full lower lip into his mouth, and bit it, and she opened her mouth to him, her tongue slipping out to taste his. His hands were on her body, crumpling the thin fabrics that covered her, rucking her skirts up over her thighs. His fingers reached the tops of her stockings, and caressed the soft, sensitive skin that they revealed. She moaned delightfully against his mouth, and nipped at him with her teeth, seizing his lower lip and sucking on it in her turn. Was he going to have her here, in his library?

He pulled his lips away from hers a fraction, just enough so that he could speak, and she could hear him. “Much as I enjoyed the sight of you in breeches, Pen, and God knows I did, I am beginning to perceive that there are decided advantages to a more conventional mode of dress.”

“How so, sir?”

“To begin with, this!” He lifted her a little in his embrace, and held her suspended slightly above him while he dragged up the layers of soft, demure muslin and crisp lawn, bunching the fabric outrageously about her waist. He took her by the hips and settled her naked bottom and fanny on the soft buckskin of his riding breeches. She gasped at the intimate contact with the warm leather, and he groaned, and pulled her more securely against him.

She had her back pressed against his chest now, and he bent his head to press his lips to the nape of her neck. He adored the tiny kisscurls there - could hardly look at them in any circumstances without touching them - and now he took them between his teeth and tugged at them. His hand was delightfully trapped between their bodies, moving, stroking her there; the other held her breast, cupping it, pinching her erect nipple through the thin, wet fabric. She wriggled deliciously in his grasp, her bare skin moving on the buckskin that strained to cover him.

He took her soft pink earlobe in his mouth, nipped it and sucked it. His eyes had fallen on his large desk, just a few short steps away. "Now that I have had time to consider the matter fully," he whispered in her ear, "decidedly, this way is better!"


	16. I Have Not the Instincts of a Libertine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sir Richard shares his romantic history with his bride.

It was the night before the newly married couple were to depart for Brighton, and Pen was sitting in her bedchamber, a charming, exiguous nightgown slipping from her shoulders, as she chose which of her mother’s jewels, newly restored to her, she should take with her; without question she would take all the items that Sir Richard had recently bought her. The late Mr Creed’s lawyer had been obliged to hand over Mrs Creed’s jewel case, and now Pen was picking her way slowly through the contents, which she had not seen since her childhood, and pointing them out to her husband.

“That pearl necklace is very fine, and will become you admirably,” remarked Sir Richard, as he stretched out in the comfortable armchair opposite her in his dressing gown and watched her.

“Yes, I do think it is quite lovely,” his bride said. “My mother smuggled it out of France sewn into her clothing, along with some of the other pieces, which sounds excessively romantic, but must have been extremely uncomfortable, I should think.”

She rarely spoke of her mother, and so Sir Richard said softly now, “Do you remember her at all?”

“Just barely,” she said sadly, “and honestly I am not quite sure if they are true memories, or stories I have been told. I remember her face, and her beautiful long hair…I think I do. I was almost four when she died. It was the influenza, because she was quite weak always, after being in prison in Paris, you know.”

“My love, I am so sorry.”

She smiled a little wistfully at him. “I wish I had known her, and I wish you could have known her too, but there is no point in repining. It is very melancholy to think of things one cannot alter.”

“I understand just how you feel, for I wish you had met my father, too. He was a very loveable, gentle man. Try on the necklace,” he said. She held up the lustrous antique pearl choker against her slim neck. “There – that is very becoming. You must wear it, and think of her. I am sure she would be very glad to know that after all her efforts to save it her daughter has it after her.”

“I hope she would. My father told me it belonged to my great-grandmother, who was a great lady of the court of Louis XV. Look, Richard, here is a picture of her, in a locket, and she is wearing the necklace, if not much else. I can’t say that I think I resemble her much, can you?”

Sir Richard took the diamond-set miniature, and examined it closely, remarking that it was probably just as well. “I should call that a come-hither look, if I were being polite to your ancestor, my dear.”

Pen dimpled, unoffended. “No, she does not look quite respectable, does she?”

“Not quite,” said the Corinthian drily, “though what we can see of her figure must - if one’s tastes lie in that, ah, pillowy direction - be allowed to be impressive.”

“Unlike me!” said Pen ruefully.

Sir Richard looked at her, his golden girl, and he could not allow her comment to pass unchallenged. He rose to his feet and picked her up, carrying her across to the big bed. “Do you require, madam, a demonstration of my decided preference for your figure over hers?”

He stripped off his silk dressing gown and lay down with her, pulling at the drawstring at her neckline. But she put her hands over his, stilling their movement, and said a little shyly, “Richard, can I ask you something?”

“Anything, my love.”

“When we are in Brighton, shall I have occasion to meet any ladies of whom…I should be jealous? If I were of a jealous nature?”

Sir Richard chuckled, for he remembered perfectly well Pen’s reaction to his quite innocent embrace of Lydia Daubenay – a reaction which had given him precious hope that she might care for him - and knew that his wife had the potential to be very jealous indeed. But he said gravely, “None whatsoever, I promise you, on my honour. You need never encounter any lady and have any fear that I have been intimate with her.”

She was relieved, but not quite at ease yet. “For I am aware, Richard, that you must have known many women before me, and it would be in the highest degree foolish to make any objection to that, and yet…”

“I should give you an accounting of my romantic history, then, and set your mind at rest. Indeed, it is only fair that you should know it. Your aunt is always ready to animadvert at length on the evils of society, and she has probably made you aware that it is quite usual in certain circles for unmarried gentlemen to attach themselves as lovers to married ladies, often with the complaisant acceptance of the ladies’ husbands. Is that how you fear I have been living?”

She nodded a little stiffly, and freed her hands from his, and he lay back on the pillows beside her.

“I have not, upon my honour, Pen. When I was young, I must admit that I once involved myself with a married lady, though the circumstances were quite different. Her husband was ill, and she was very unhappy, and as for me, I was young and foolish. I assure you I have never entangled myself in such a way since.”

He smoothed back one of her errant golden curls and went on, “I was about your age, Pen, and I was spending time with my father in Norfolk, on an estate he had recently inherited from an uncle. This was the year Louisa made her come-out, so she and my mother were not with us.” 

Pen had seen the impressive pictures Mr Lawrence had painted of Louisa and Richard at that time, and which her mother-in-law kept in her drawing-room. She could hardly wonder that Lady Wyndham had chosen not to let her son be present at Louisa’s come-out; if the canvases were true likenesses, he had been far prettier at seventeen than his sister at eighteen. But she kept this reflection to herself as her husband went on.

“Everything was in the greatest possible disorder – indeed I think the worry of it hastened my poor father’s death some months later - and although I tried to help him there was not much I could do, so that I was left to my own devices for much of the time, and rode about the countryside a great deal, bored.

“On one of these expeditions I met a lady riding alone, whom I learned to be the much younger wife of an elderly neighbour. My father told me that he had been a notorious rake in his day, father of a large and dissolute brood of grown children, and had taken as his second wife a young lady from an impoverished family, who had in effect sold her to the old roué, in a most revolting way.”

Pen said faintly, “How horrible for her!”

“It was, truly. A few years after their marriage, he had suffered a paralytic stroke, and was now entirely bedridden, unable to speak and confined to his chamber. And so his poor wife was tied to a man she had never cared for – and, from all I understood, one who did not merit her affection – childless, still in her twenties, and shut away from all society, half mad with loneliness.”

He sighed and said, “I expect you can imagine how it went. We began to meet frequently, as if by accident, and talk, quite innocently at first, for want of other company, and then – not so innocently. I was completely inexperienced with women– God knows I did not set out to seduce her, for I would have had not the least idea of how to go about it. But she took charge, and I was more than willing. There was a summer house on her estate which her husband had used for his assignations in previous years, and we met there.”

“Was she very beautiful?” asked Pen softly.

“I suppose she was, but most of all she was very sad. I was captivated and flattered by her, but even with the arrogance of youth I could not delude myself that I made her happy. As time went on, she would sometimes weep inconsolably at moments of extreme delicacy, which was disconcerting to a young man - indeed, would disconcert me now. And I knew, despite the extenuating circumstances, that it was wrong, and had no future, and it became a torment to me. We always had to take the greatest care that she should not fall with child, and that was an anxiety too, for imagine the evils of her position if she had. Nobody would have believed for an instant that her husband was the father. It came to seem to me a wretched situation, despite the pleasure we gave each other. I could not even in my youthful vanity believe that she would wish to marry me, should she one day be free to do so, and so it proved.”

“Did her husband die?” 

“Yes, quite suddenly. She was freed from him, and her family swooped down on her, and in a moment she was gone. I heard later that she had married a friend from her youth, and I believe she now has several children. I am glad for her. She does not appear in London society, Pen, and I have never seen her since. She taught me a great deal, for which I must always be grateful, but indeed I did not truly love her, nor she me. And I no longer own the estate, my love, so do not fear that you will be obliged to go there. I sold it after my father died.”

“And afterwards?”

He smiled wryly down at her, “Oh, I thought myself heartbroken, and wrote bad poetry to her, while striking any number of interesting attitudes, but I think I was secretly relieved it was over. And when I recovered, which was surprisingly quickly, imagine my good opinion of myself – what a dashing blade I was, a Casanova in my teens, a man of the world! I entered into society, and made careless love to a fair few opera dancers, as young men will, but after a while I began to tire of it. I have not the instincts of a libertine, Pen, and as I grew older I began to be disgusted with myself, exchanging money for affection, if you could call it affection. I have never since entangled myself with a respectable woman, and precious little with any women at all in recent times. When I have felt the lack of…female company, I have ridden my poor horse to exhaustion, or taken out my energy on the punching bag at Jackson’s saloon, or simply drunk myself to oblivion.

“My reputation, as you will discover soon enough, is certainly not that of a rake – quite the reverse, I am known as a cold, disdainful fellow, who has resisted all the lures laid out for him by married and unmarried ladies alike. I have not set tongues wagging by flaunting liaisons with expensive courtesans, either, unlike many of my friends; that would seem to me a mere parody of a loving marriage, when I wanted the real thing, and feared I would never find it. Until I met you, my dearest.”

“Oh, my love, thank you for telling me.” She traced the almost invisible scar on his cheek, which broken glass had caused the day they met, with a tender hand, and he turned his lips, and kissed her palm. She said, “I have not previously considered it properly, but, given all that you say, our marriage will be an enormous sensation, Richard, will it not?”

“I fear it may be so for a while, but I have done what I can to manage matters. I asked Louisa to tell her closest friends – in strictest confidence, naturally – that I met you by chance at Lady Luttrell’s house, was instantly captivated by you, proposed after mere days and was accepted, and in my ardour insisted on an immediate marriage. I think it would be an error to try to stifle all gossip and pretend that we married in normal circumstances – we must embrace the story of a whirlwind romance so that no-one will look for any further scandal. I am sure the tale has spread like wildfire in Brighton already, if we but knew it.”

She could see that he had done his loving best to spare her any disagreeable consequences, by attempting to ensure that most of the bustle would centre on him, not on her. She chuckled. “I see! So all the malicious tattle, you hope, will be about you, in your new character as an eager husband.”

“It has at least the merit of being true. I did fall in love with you almost immediately when we met. And I am, God knows…an eager husband.” His hands moved to the drawstrings of her nightrail again, and began to untie them.

She bit her full lower lip, torn between her anxiety and the anticipation of pleasure that the touch of his warm, seductive hands on her body evoked in her. “And society will look at me and wonder what there could be about a chit of a girl, a nobody, scarcely out of the schoolroom, to capture the elusive attention of Beau Wyndham.”

“You are not a nobody, Pen. I am sure that persons of discernment will quickly come to appreciate your charm and fascination. I expect half the young men in Brighton will be in love with you by month’s end, and writing odes to your dimples and your sparking eyes.”

“Nonsense!” she almost moaned. He had freed her breasts from their confinement as he was speaking, lifting them, cupping them in his hands for a moment. Then he began lazily circling the rosy nipples with the tips of his fingers. He bent his head to blow softly on them, one and then the other, and the sensitive pink skin puckered, and rose to meet him.

“It is not nonsense. I could essay a sonnet myself – but I prefer a more…practical demonstration of my appreciation.”

He brushed one sensitive tip with his lips, then ran his tongue around it, before drawing it deep into his mouth and sucking on it, while his hand reached to capture the other, and roll it gently between thumb and forefinger. Pen reached out with greedy hands, her worries forgotten, to stroke his superbly muscled back and urge his body closer to hers. He was naked, but she was still wearing her flimsy nightgown, although it was pushed down almost to her waist now. He grasped the hem, and inched it up slowly over her knees and thighs, trailing the tips of his fingers across her skin as he did so, caressing her. She raised her hips from the bed to help him. “I’ll take it off!” she murmured.

“If you do not, I will rip it from you, I warn you!” 

They sat up, and he helped her drag the material over her head, impatient to have her free of it. “I do not think anyone would think you cold or disdainful if they saw you now!”

“I have barely begun,” he said.


	17. A Great Deal of Fevered Speculation in the Polite World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brighton is all agog. I have nobly resisted the temptation to go full Lady Whistledown.

"A marriage has been arranged and has taken place, Monday last, at St James’s Church, Mayfair, between Sir Richard Wyndham, of St James’s Square, and Penelope, Miss Creed, only child of the late Mr Henry Creed, of Queen’s Manor, Somerset."

This announcement, which appeared in the pages of the Morning Post soon after the nuptials of Sir Richard and Pen, caused a great deal of fevered speculation in the polite world. There were many intriguing points which the ladies and gentlemen of the beau monde could discuss with various degrees of honest wonder and malicious speculation.

First of all, it had been an on-dit in recent weeks that the long, family-arranged unofficial engagement between Sir Richard and Miss Brandon was about to come to its much-anticipated conclusion. And now this! What must the Brandons think of this most unexpected marriage?! Had there been a rift between the two families? And could it be true, as one heard, that the famous family diamonds had been stolen, and Beverley Brandon foully murdered? What a catalogue of disasters! How shocking - and how intriguing...

Secondly, who was this young lady whom Sir Richard had married? The most exalted ladies of the haut ton were adamant that she had not yet made her entry into the polite world, or they should have heard of her. So it must be concluded that she was not of the first society, or, if she was, she had not made her come-out, for reasons of poverty or perhaps of age. Might it be that she was a nobody, or a very poor or very young lady? Surely not! What delicious speculation!

Thirdly, it seemed to all that this wedding must have been arranged with the greatest possible haste. There were several gentlemen who were prepared to swear that Sir Richard had been gambling at Almack’s a bare couple of weeks ago, with not the slightest hint in his famously languid demeanour that he was contemplating entering so precipitately into the happy state of matrimony. His family, too, had given no sign of it, and no whispers of gossip had been heard by the keenest ears.

Furthermore, although Sir Richard was one of the greatest prizes on the marriage mart, his handsome face and elegant person making him prodigiously desirable, and his large fortune even more so, he had never shown the least serious interest in any of the many young ladies thrust under his nose with varying degrees of subtlety by their fond mamas. Some of them had been of high birth, some of great beauty, some of sparkling wit, though in truth very few of them had possessed all three of these desirable qualities. Sir Richard had occasionally deigned to raise his deadly quizzing glass to inspect one of these hopeful nymphs, but no more. And he was not known as the devoted cicisbeo of any married lady, nor as one who had set up house with an expensive, dashing light ‘o love, so that it was hard indeed to imagine the paragon who had captured his fancy at last. She must be something quite out of the common way...

A few of this year’s crop of debutantes claimed, on seeing the announcement, to be acquainted with a young lady by the name of Penelope Creed, having attended a select seminary with her until quite recently. But they scarcely thought it could be her – surely there must be some mistake – for she was only seventeen and not yet out, and besides, some of them said (the ones who had not been her particular friends), she was an odd, lanky, shabby creature, not at all fashionable, with few of the most desirable ladylike accomplishments, and therefore hardly likely to attract the attention of such a nonpareil as Sir Richard! And how could she have met him? It was true, they revealed, that she was some sort of heiress, but Sir Richard could not be supposed to care a jot for that.

There were some gentlemen of mature years, too, who read the newspaper announcement and said reminiscently, “Harry Creed’s daughter, eh? Damn good sort of a fellow he was, game for anything! I remember the time on the Grand Tour in ‘78: the Casino in Venice, and he'd somehow got hold of a bear…” but their wives and daughters did not pay much heed to their meanderings.

All in all, it was a great mystery, and people could talk of little else. A large proportion of the ton had now decamped to Brighton, to taste all its varied pleasures, and so much of the speculation was centred there, and Sir Richard’s long-suffering sister bore the brunt of it.

After a week or so had passed, Lady Trevor found herself to be quite exhausted. She had realised that her brother’s unexpected and very speedy marriage to an unknown young lady who had not yet made her debut would make her, as the representative of her family in Brighton, an object of general attention, but she had had no notion that she would find herself the centre of quite such a whirlwind of gossip and speculation, obliged to answer all kinds of impertinent questions and deal with all manner of vulgar curiosity in her brother’s absence. 

Her close friends, of course, had been most sympathetic, if not discreet; she had told them the affecting tale of Sir Richard’s romance and had had the wry satisfaction of realising that it had subsequently spread in a most astonishing manner, considering it had been told each time in confidence. She knew from hints that had been dropped to her, and remarks overheard but not intended for her ears, that all the world was by now tattling excitedly of her brother's extraordinary and very sudden transformation into a besotted suitor and husband. His plan had so far worked, and she was glad for him and for Pen. But all in all, she would be very grateful when the newly married couple made their appearance, at which point they and not she would become the focus of attention, both good-natured and ill.

She was also, she had to admit, as consumed with curiosity as anyone else. She had seen a very little of Sir Richard and Pen together in the days before their swift wedding, but nothing since. She could hardly wait to see her brother in his fresh and most unlikely character of a man deeply in love with his new bride and careless who knew it, and after all she was only human; the first weeks of married life must be acknowledged to be crucial ones for any couple, let alone a couple whose acquaintance before their union had been of so very short a duration. She had no knowledge, naturally, of her brother's private life before this date, although she recalled that her papa had said something to her mama once that hinted at some disreputable entanglement to which she was not privy, and George had let slip that there had been opera dancers, so she must presume... An improper line of thought, and one not to be pursued.

She knew that their arrival was imminent, but she was still unreasonably annoyed when her husband returned from his morning ride one day to announce that he had encountered Sir Richard and Pen on horseback not half an hour ago; it seemed unfair that George of all people should meet them first. “They arrived late yesterday afternoon, so I said you would call on them today, Louisa, for I knew you would be anxious to see them.”

“How did they seem, George?”

“Seem?”

Louisa snorted in exasperation. “George! Did they seem content with each other?! We have not seen them since their marriage; how did they appear to be getting on?”

He stared at her in puzzlement. “Why, famously, of course! Why should they not? I must say, Louisa, I was glad to observe that Pen has a devilish good seat on a horse, and looks very well there, for it is hard to imagine Richard married to someone who did not care for riding. I have to admit, they do make a dashed handsome couple.”

“I will have to visit them, so I can see for myself!”

“I am sure you must always have intended to do so, my dear!” said George, rather smartly, he thought.

A couple of hours later, Lady Trevor climbed into her stylish barouche, accompanied by her excited daughters, en route to visit her brother and sister-in-law. It was too far to walk, for Sir Richard’s house was a little way out of town. He had some years ago made the decision to buy a property near Brighton, rather than to rent one for the season as many of the ton did. He had purchased a substantial farmhouse that stood on a low cliff some short distance from the growing town, and had extended it and remodelled it to his own taste. He was said to be excessively fond of the house, and was known to come here, in a slightly eccentric way, at odd times of the year, even out of season, “to listen to the waves”, as he put it. The building was quite large now, and made a fine sight as one approached it by road, with its bright white stucco and elaborate black-painted iron balconies looking out over the pebble beach below.

Even before Sir Richard’s most surprising marriage, his home had been the subject of great speculation among the ladies of the fashionable world. It was said to be appointed with the greatest possible luxury and every modern convenience. No ladies of course had seen it, apart from those of the Wyndham family, since Sir Richard as a single man had naturally not held ton parties there, but only convivial gatherings for his particular friends. It was to be hoped that the newly-wed couple would hold a large party – in fact, many felt it was their Christian duty to do so - so that everyone’s curiosity might be satisfied.

Lady Trevor could have told the inquisitive, had she chosen to do so, that the house was much like any other, decorated indeed with a great deal of nice taste, but no particular luxury, as her brother’s preference was for the relatively plain and simple. The only unusual feature, perhaps, was the substantial upstairs balcony, which he had furnished with lamps, tables and chairs and a large, deeply cushioned couch, upon which he might lie and look out over the sea. He had also purchased his own bathing machine and placed it on the beach, for he was much addicted to sea-bathing, and actual swimming, even in inclement weather. Louisa wondered idly if Pen shared this peculiarity, and concluded that it seemed just the kind of odd thing that she might enjoy.

Alighting from the carriage, Louisa and her girls were shown into the secluded garden at the side of the house, where they found that the couple had not long finished their nuncheon. Sir Richard was reclining on a comfortable seat on the broad veranda, with a newspaper beside him, while Pen was charmingly attired in a severe black riding dress, which became her greatly, and practising shooting arrows at a target, which she seemed to do with some skill. They came forward to greet their visitors, and Pen soon found herself dragged away by the girls to show them how to use her bow and arrows. They quickly tired of this dangerous sport, however, somewhat to their mother’s relief, and persuaded their new aunt to accompany them down to the beach, to look for treasure. Louisa had not the least concern that they would come to any disaster in Pen’s company, and let them go.

She seated herself beside her brother and smiled at him with a look of interrogation. “Well, Louisa,” he said provokingly. “I trust you find yourself in good heart? I saw this morning that George is on excellent form, he tells me that my nephew is well, and I perceive for myself that the girls are in tearing spirits – rude health, one might even say.” 

Since her daughters could in fact at that moment be heard shrieking in a most unladylike fashion from the strand below, Louisa could not take issue with this. She sniffed, and said, “Richard, I thank you for your concern! I am indeed well, as you can see. But it rather I who should enquire as to your well-being, and Pen’s. I trust you are finding married life to your taste.”

“Very much so, my dear sister. Do I not look well on it?”

She was forced to concede that he did, having much the appearance of a large and contented feline, as he lounged at his ease. He might almost have purred. She found this to be an encouraging sign. He smiled and said, “No, I should not tease you. I know you are anxious only that we find ourselves happy, and in accord, and so we do.”

He paused and then said in a more serious tone, “Do you know, Louisa, I awoke early this morning with Pen by my side and as I watched her sleeping I was overwhelmed by a feeling of happiness – really the word is not at all adequate to describe what I felt - so strong that it brought tears to my eyes. I love her so much that it frightens me.“ He broke off.

Well, that answers one of my questions, I suppose, thought Louisa privately. She had no words, but reached out and took his hand, and clasped it strongly for a moment. Presently he said, “Ignore my foolishness, I beg you! It is enough to know that we are very happy.”

She cleared her throat. “I am very glad to hear it. I, on the other hand, have been enduring the most dreadful time, and I am convinced that only your appearance with Pen in society will put a stop to it – and divert all the attention to you!”

He laughed. “I suppose that will be the case. I have had several most cordial letters of congratulation, from Brummell, and Alvanley, and other of my friends, but I apprehend that it is not chiefly to them that you refer. I expect it is the women.”

“Indeed! I should be sorry to refer to well-bred ladies as a pack of harpies, but I am afraid that is what they are! People with whom I have never previously exchanged more than a few civil words and a nod have been besieging me with most impertinent questions. Who is your bride, and where did you meet her, and has she a fortune, and why on earth did you marry in such haste?!”

He grimaced. “It was only to be expected, my dear. At least you had your story all prepared, but I am truly sorry you have had such a time of it. I am sure you will now be relieved of it all, except that I hope you will not repine of your decision to help me launch Pen into society.”

“I am not such a poor creature, Richard! I collect you will take her to Lady Jersey’s soiree tomorrow night? That seems the most suitable occasion for her to make her debut.”

“Yes, I have already written to Sally Jersey to beg her to allow me to bring Pen, and I have had a good-natured note in response. We are to dine there first, as I think are you?”

She nodded. “Of course. Pen will wear her dark blue silk, I collect, and look most charming. Is she nervous?”

“More than a little,” he smiled, “but I tell her that she will be a great success, and carry all before her.”

Just then the party returned from the beach, burdened with all kinds of curiously shaped stones, and clearly in need of refreshment. 

Louisa was about to take her leave a little while later when Pen happened to mention that there were new kittens in the stables, and it suited Louisa’s purposes very well that her brother should be obliged to take his nieces to meet them. As they dragged him away, bombarding him with questions, Lady Trevor looked at Pen and said, “You look well, my dear; I hope you are finding married life congenial.”

Congenial! Pen blushed rosily, rigorously repressing certain images which rose unbidden to her mind, and replied that indeed she was. She must, she reflected, accustom herself to answering this question without embarrassment, as she would surely be asked it very frequently over the coming weeks.

Louisa said a little abruptly, “I can see for myself that you have made my brother very happy, even if he had not told me so. More and more I think that I must have been deranged to attempt to persuade him into a marriage of convenience. I had allowed myself to be deceived by the front that he chooses to present to the world, and I should have known better. He was my naughty little brother long before he decided to make a career of being the perfect man of fashion who cares for nothing and nobody.”

Pen regarded her steadily, smiling a little. “He never presented such a façade to me. I have seen him assume it like a mask for others, but never with me, not from the very first.”

“I wonder why?”

She chuckled. “Perhaps because he was drunk when he first met me, and so his guard was down? And because I told him straight away of my predicament, and it mirrored his own? I’ve not thought to ask him. It seemed so natural to me that there was never the least constraint or pretence between us; I have never questioned it.”

“Well, whatever the reason, I am very glad of it. When I think that I might be responsible for consigning him to life of misery…”

“You thought all for the best. To make him miserable was never your intention, I am sure.”

“Indeed not,” said Louisa drily. “Luckily my idiotic plan has failed, and you have saved him. But tell me, are you looking forward to the party tomorrow night? Your debut in society!”

“I am somewhat apprehensive!” confessed Pen with a droll look. “But I know it must be done, and I hope that with Richard’s support, and yours, I shall bring it off well enough. As long as I do not disgrace him!”

“My dear, of course you will do nothing of the sort! You will do admirably, I am sure. Your marriage will be a nine days’ wonder, you will see, and soon enough everyone will forget that the circumstances of it were a trifle unusual.” She was privately not entirely confident that this was true, but felt obliged to reassure Pen, rather than to add to her anxiety. “You will find that Lady Jersey will welcome you with a great deal of kindness. I know many people do not like her, and it is true that she talks a great deal, but she holds Richard in the greatest affection, having known him since her own come-out, so you need have no concern that she will be anything but very kind to you. And her support counts for much, as you shall discover.”

Pen achieved a somewhat tremulous smile in response, and said, “So Richard tells me. I have no fears on that score, indeed, Louisa. I shall not be missish! I must be resolute, and make him proud of me. I cannot endure that he should incur any unpleasant consequences on my behalf!”

At this moment the girls and their uncle returned from their trip to the stables, clamouring to be allowed to keep one of the kittens as their own, and all further serious conversation was impossible. “Until tomorrow!” said Louisa as she took her leave.


	18. Lady Jersey's Soiree

A crowd of idle onlookers had gathered to see the fine ladies and gentlemen arriving at Lord and Lady Jersey’s grand Brighton house. They were rewarded for their curiosity with the sight of Sir Richard, looking immaculately handsome in black silk pantaloons and evening coat, handing his bride down from their carriage in front of the entrance to the mansion. 

“Who’s he?” enquired one of the onlookers, impressed by the Corinthian’s height and air of elegance.

“Don’t you know nothing?” jeered a bystander. “That’s Beau Wyndham, that is, and this here is his new bride. I hear tell he married her three days after he met her!”

“How romantic!” sighed a frail little maidservant in a mobbed cap. “Just like a play!”

The young lady in question was observed to be very tall, wearing an elegantly simple gown of deep blue silk, wrapped in a gauzy evening cloak. It was felt to be a shame that she was not a fashionable, voluptuous dark beauty, but she was allowed to be well enough for all that, and certainly the gentleman was most satisfyingly attentive to her. The couple passed inside the house, and the crowd turned their attention to the next arrivals. 

Richard smiled down at Pen as they moved into the hallway and said, not for the first time, “You look quite lovely, my dearest. Your hair, the gown, the pearls – everything is perfect. In my experience – and you must allow me some expertise – if you look immaculate, you can carry anything off, no matter how you feel. Do not fret, it will all be fine.”

Pen made a droll, self-deprecating face, and her husband said, “No, do yourself justice, Pen. You were Miss Creed of Queen’s Manor before you ever met me: you have beauty, charm, wit, elegance, breeding and fortune. All that gives you every right to be here, whether we were married or not, and anyone might say with perfect truth that I am excessively lucky to have won you. I may be partial, but I am none the less correct for all that. You will do splendidly.”

Pen gave Richard a very speaking look of gratitude, and he squeezed her hand reassuringly and led her on. Setting aside the rest, she was indeed conscious that her new evening gown became her very well - her husband had left her in no doubt at all of his warm appreciation of the way that its silky drapery clung to her slim frame - so that at least she went into the lion’s den looking her best, she reflected. As ever, her ready humour came to her aid, and she was in addition very glad to see Louisa and George just ahead of them, both smiling warmly and complimenting her on her appearance. She took a deep breath, and moved to curtsy to her hostess.

Lady Jersey greeted the party with a great deal of attention. She was a neighbour of Lady Trevor’s in London, and was very much of an age with Sir Richard, and fond of him, and disposed to be gracious to his new wife. “My dear Lady Wyndham, I am most happy to make your acquaintance! I have been telling myself that I would be very kind to Richard’s little bride, and now I find myself quite dwarfed by you! None the less I will forgive you for being quite astonishingly tall and graceful, and looking so very lovely, so that I can quite see why my old friend has fallen so desperately in love with you!”

Pen thanked her for her kindness, her striking blue eyes smiling shyly at her hostess. “Charming, my dear, quite charming! Come and meet everyone!”

And so it was that Pen, still clinging somewhat tightly to Sir Richard’s arm, found herself introduced to the cream of society. Everyone was being very kind to her, and she resolved to push away her anxiety, and enjoy herself a little. There was, she reflected, an air of unreality about the whole proceedings. This deepened when she found herself presently introduced to and seated beside Mr Brummell at dinner, and she smiled sunnily at him, her eyes twinkling with irrepressible amusement. Perhaps this IS a dream, she thought to herself. If someone had told me a month ago that I should be here, married, in this company, I would have said they had run mad. The Beau was very elegant and distinguished, she thought, but of course not as tall and handsome as Richard, nor did he possess so fine a figure, nor such an arresting smile.

Mr Brummell regarded her a little curiously, grey eyes sharp. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, ma’am, and must congratulate my friend Wyndham upon his marriage, which I must confess was…somewhat unexpected. But what a delightful surprise!”

She chuckled. “I don’t think anyone could have been more surprised than I, sir. Richard and I have now known each other less than a month.”

“But how extraordinary! I hope you will indulge my no doubt vulgar curiosity!”

She did so, telling him the carefully edited version of their story, and Sir Richard, looking down the table rather anxiously, saw that his old friend – who was certainly not immune to feminine charms – was looking quite enraptured at Pen’s animated little face. He smiled rather wryly to himself, and turned back to his neighbour, Lady Sefton, who had, he perceived, seen his attention wander. “I am sorry, ma’am,” he said contritely, “Please forgive me! I was a little anxious to see how my wife was managing, but I see that George Brummell is taking good care of her.”

“He seems quite taken with her, Sir Richard, and no wonder, for she is delightful. But tell me, is there any truth in these ridiculous rumours that we have been hearing, of you meeting her and falling in love on the instant? Not that I mean to say that there is the least reason why you should not, only that it is quite at odds with what one thought one knew of you.”

He laughed, and said, “Ma’am, it is quite at odds with what I thought I knew of myself! But there is no denying it. Whoever loved, that loved not at first sight? Barely had I set eyes on Pen than I began to feel a most unfamiliar sensations of interest and curiosity, and by the end of that day I knew that all my future happiness depended on making her my wife.”

“How romantic!” Lady Sefton said with an indulgent smile. “But how long had you been acquainted with her when you proposed marriage?”

“I think you will wonder at my self-control, ma’am, for I waited a full four days!” 

She was startled into a laugh. Sir Richard smiled at her so beguilingly, she reflected privately that it was no wonder a chit of seventeen should have been swept off her feet by him. She said, “Such restraint! Your story is quite charming, as is your bride, and I am sure I wish you very happy. I am sorry for you both, though: no doubt you will have to accustom yourself to a great deal of unwelcome attention.”

“I am quite sure you are right, but it is of no consequence, I assure you, as long as my wife is not inconvenienced by it. I do not in any case see that there is anything I can do to prevent it.”

Lady Sefton was renowned throughout the polite word for her kind heart, and she was enchanted by Sir Richard’s love story, and resolved to do all she could to smooth his wife’s path into society. She said as much to her friend and hostess, when the ladies had retired from the dining-room, leaving the gentlemen to their port. 

“My dear Maria, I am in complete agreement with you!” said Lady Jersey earnestly. “It is quite an extraordinary thing to see Richard so in love. I have known him this age, and have always liked him – his smile alone is enough to make sure of that, I am sure you agree, forgetting his handsome face, as if one could - but I would never have thought him capable of such passion! I always thought him a rather cold-blooded creature, despite all his charm, and entirely without romantic sensibility. In fact, Louisa Trevor told me in the strictest confidence last week that his family felt so too, and had quite despaired of him attempting to fix his interest with anyone, which is why they tried to contrive the match with the Brandon girl, who is much the same. I am sure I never heard of him bestowing any distinguishing attention on a young lady! And now this start!”

Lady Sefton regarded the bride thoughtfully. She was deep in conversation with two of the younger ladies of the party, and it seemed from their rapt faces and eager nods, and her animated expression - surely that of one telling a story to a captivated audience - that they had cornered her and demanded of her the tale of her meeting with Sir Richard and their romantic engagement. She did not appear to be in any distress, nor to be in immediate need of rescue. “He told me over dinner that it is all quite true – he fell in love with her almost the moment he met her, and proposed within four days.”

“The match-making mamas must be gnashing their teeth in fury,” said Lady Jersey cheerfully, for her children were still in the nursery. “I must say, she seems unexceptionable. Not precisely a classic beauty, of course, but such a lovely smile, her eyes are very striking, and she has pretty, unaffected manners; no die-away airs, unlike so many of these young girls. Fine old family pearls, too, if he did not buy them for her. Do you know anything of her people, Maria?”

“I do not, but Sefton tells me that he was slightly acquainted with her father, although he was somewhat older. He said he rarely came to London, but was, he believed, a friend of the late Marquis of Alverstoke from his youth, and was occasionally to be met with at Alver.”

“MOST unexceptionable, then! His wife French, I hear, which is a pity, but safely dead, after all. And I believe she is an heiress?” Lady Jersey approved of this, for she was a great heiress herself.

Lady Sefton nodded. “Sefton says it is indeed so, although I do not know how men come to know these things. Yes, a great deal of most valuable house property in Bath and Bristol, as well as the estate in Somerset.”

“Truly a modern fairy-tale,” said Lady Jersey a little drily. “Not that Richard can be said to need the money, but how pleasant! And how much better than those rackety Brandons, unlucky creatures that they are. It is a terrible thing to hear that the boy is dead – murdered! - but I understand he was most wild, nearly vicious, and very deeply in debt, so perhaps after all it may prove to be a blessing in disguise.”

“Poor Emily!” said Lady Sefton. “I was never more shocked in my life, and I hear that Saar…”

The gentlemen re-joined the ladies at this juncture, and Sir Richard went straight to his wife, cordially greeting her young companions, who blushed and giggled at him, but soon retreated at the threat of his raised quizzing glass. He took her hand and kissed it, smiling down at her and saying softly, “All well, my love?”

Pen felt she had acquitted herself well so far, but she was suddenly aware that all eyes were upon them. She dimpled up at him. “I am having a very pleasant evening, thank you, Richard, and I have told those silly girls our story and seen them lap it up, but I am glad to see you again. Must everyone stare so? I feel like an exhibit in the Egyptian Hall!”

“I fear they must, and we must accustom ourselves to it, at least for a while. Ignore them, Pen, and come and be introduced to some more of my friends. They are most anxious to meet you.”

More guests were arriving, and the elegant saloons were filling up, so that Pen soon felt less conscious of many curious eyes upon her, as it was impossible now to gain a clear view of the room from any angle. She made the acquaintance of some very distinguished leaders of fashion, friends of her husband, and was also pleased to talk to Lord Sefton, a bluff sporting gentleman who told her that he had known her father slightly. “Of course we didn’t have a great deal to say to one another, my dear, as he wasn’t a patron of the Turf, but well do I remember meeting him at Alver years ago, long before you were born, I dare say. Fine figure of a fellow, very sound on the hunting field, and I see you have inherited his golden curls!”

She smiled at him, her fine eyes shining. “Yes, it was his habit from his youth always to wear his hair unpowdered, even on formal occasions, and he was thought quite eccentric in those days. When I was a child everyone said that I resembled him greatly, and not my poor mama. I do not suppose you ever knew her, sir?”

He had not, he was sorry to say, and so the conversation turned to indifferent topics, and soon enough it was time to leave.

Their carriage arrived, and Sir Richard handed Pen into it. He took her gloved hand in the darkness and said, “That was not so very terrible, was it, my love? I hope you will think that the worst is over, for you have stood firm under questioning, and met tonight some of society’s greatest figures, and won them all over, as I knew you would.”

He could hear the relief in her voice as she said, “No, it is quite true, Richard, everyone was most amiable. I know that will not always be the case, and of course I know too that what people say to one’s face is not always what they say behind one’s back – after all, I went to a girls’ school - but it was not a bad beginning, do you not think? It seems incredible that just a few weeks ago I barely knew of your existence, and thought I might never escape from the Griffins!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yes, the Griffins - remember them?


	19. The Injustice of It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All is not well in the Griffin household.

As the weeks passed, news of Pen’s social success reached the ears of her aunt Almeria in London, and could hardly have been said to add to the gaiety of the Griffin household. Bad enough to read about the atrocious girl in the society notes of the newspapers and magazines, but, when one’s own friends and acquaintances came to call with the express purpose of telling one of it, it was insupportable. “Mrs Sewell thought I would like to know that she saw Lady Wyndham walking along the Marine Parade in Brighton with her husband and Mr Brummell! The bride looked in very good health and was the focus of general attention! She says this, all the while smiling at me most odiously! Why would I like to know this?! I have washed my hands of the dreadful, ungrateful, unprincipled creature! Of course I did not tell the wretched Sewell woman so, but was forced to smile with complaisance and make civil conversation!”

Mrs Griffin was accustomed to rant in this fashion for some considerable while, to whoever would listen, or indeed whoever happened to be in the room at the time, listening or not. Fortunately her husband was a stolid, rather vague gentleman of great patience and few words, and suffered her outbursts in silence. He had in fact, rather liked Sir Richard when he had had occasion to meet him once during the negotiations over his niece’s property. He had been impressed with the Corinthian’s concern for Pen’s future well-being, and the very sound way he had insisted on things being left. Naturally Sir Richard’s lawyer and man of business had been the main movers in this process, but Mr Griffin had no doubt that they were acting on their master’s instructions, and respected him for it. He thought in truth that he would make Pen a very good husband, and she a charming wife for him, but after twenty-five years of marriage he was not such a fool to say as much to his spouse. Nor did he think that his own elder son Frederick was at all suited for matrimony, nor that he would have been happy with his cousin as his wife, despite the undoubted advantages of her fortune, but these too were opinions he very wisely kept to himself.

Mr Frederick Griffin was perhaps more to be pitied at this time, since he had to listen to his mother’s animadversions on Pen’s character and behaviour, as well as to many digressions on how all of this was his own fault, for none of it would have happened if he had succeeded in fixing his interest with Pen, as he had had so many opportunities to do, living under the same roof with her for such a period. 

It was also soon borne in upon him that, quite apart from the incalculable financial loss of Pen’s estate and property, and the much reduced nature of their prospects as a family, the household immediately found itself in somewhat straightened circumstances. The allowance Mrs Griffin had drawn for Pen’s support and maintenance had been generous, and very little of it had in fact been spent on Pen herself. It had, quite improperly, been used to pay for a considerable proportion of the Griffins’ household expenses, and now that it had ceased they all felt the lack of it. Mrs Griffin had held everything in her sole control, and had been most cunning in the nature of her accounting for the family’s expenses, and Mr Creed’s lawyer – an elderly, unmarried gentleman - had felt in any case a certain diffidence in enquiring too minutely into the accounts of such a terrifying lady, sister of his late employer. What did he know of pin money, and dressmaker’s bills, and ribbons, and bonnets, and…and underthings?

Mrs Griffin was forced now to reveal some quite shocking facts to her husband and her sons. One of the Griffins’ servants had always been described and recompensed, it was now discovered, as Pen’s personal attendant, a fact which would have greatly surprised that young lady, for she had never had one. Pen’s clothing allowance was now also found to have been quite large, and yet Miss Creed had for ever been dressed in very modest gowns which she continually outgrew, so that she had for years presented a disgracefully shabby appearance, with a great deal of ankle. Young Mr Griffin’s own horse had in fact been catalogued as Miss Creed’s personal mount, while she, despite her frequent entreaties, had never been allowed to ride at her aunt’s house. Mrs Griffin’s account books presented a tale of an heiress who had been housed, clothed and cared for in a most suitable and generous manner by loving relatives; the reality was very different.

The elder Mr Griffin was quite mortified to realise that any ill opinion Sir Richard and his professional gentlemen may have held of the Griffin family’s dealings with Pen was perfectly justified. He knew too that they remained in ignorance of the full extent of his wife’s dishonesty – there really was no other word for it - though he feared that they suspected it. He could only hope that Sir Richard’s great wealth and a dislike of notoriety might prevent him from enquiring any further into the matter, and examining servants, and so on. He realised with chagrin that he had allowed his natural indolence and Mrs Griffin’s masterful nature to place him in a highly invidious position, and he was very sorry for it. He could hardly write to the other parties and confess, saying that he was a hen-pecked, foolish husband, and had given his domineering wife free rein in the household. The responsibility was ultimately his, and ignorance was no defence. He also reflected painfully that he HAD been fully aware of his wife’s plans for Pen’s marriage to Frederick, and her attempts to force the poor child into matrimony quite against her will had been carried out under his nose, and with his tacit agreement. He was a lazy but essentially good-natured man, and he was, to do him justice, distressed to be forced to realise the full nature of his own folly. He thought he might perhaps write a private letter to Pen, in due course, apologising for his conduct, and he took a weak comfort in this, and maintained his habitual silence, but in no very happy state. Luckily for him, he was too caught up in his own concerns to be aware of his eldest son’s turbulent state of mind, or he must have added yet further to his own woes.

Frederick, unlike his father, was not prone to any kind of self-doubt, and had besides grown up too much under his mother’s sway to be able to see any fault in her actions, particularly as he had been the chief beneficiary of them. He was a shallow youth, and selfish, and he was quite appalled by the retrenchments that he would be forced to practise. He thought that Pen was dashed lucky to have been taken in by his family, at great inconvenience to themselves, and considered it entirely correct that she should have borne the burden of the household expenses. He was addicted to dandyism, a shockingly expensive pastime, and his mother was not slow to make him aware that he could no longer afford such costly follies. 

His mother had so instilled in him for the last five years the idea that Pen was his for the taking that he had come to see her fortune too as truly his by right, and he now felt deeply aggrieved by the loss of it. He had never cared a jot for Pen herself, nor indeed greatly wished to marry her, but he had certainly cared very much - more even than he had realised – for the prospect of her inheritance, and the position it would have given him in the world. To be Mr Griffin, owner of a fine estate in Somerset and husband to a great heiress, would surely have gained him the general recognition, social position and fashionable friends that he craved. To be Mr Griffin with little money and no such prospects was, he found, quite a different matter. His rackety drinking cronies mocked him relentlessly, and made many coarse references to his lack of address, in contrast to the suavity and savoir-faire possessed by his new relative by marriage. His friends, if they may be described so, were very well aware how much Mr Griffin admired Sir Richard and wished to emulate him, and were merciless in their raillery.

And this perhaps was the worst of it for Frederick. He had for many years cherished the ambition of meeting his idol, and at last he had done so. He was in fact now quite closely connected to him by marriage, a prospect that would once have given him enormous gratification, but only consider the circumstances! The Corinthian had stolen HIS bride, and HIS comfortable future, and furthermore had made it perfectly clear to Mrs Griffin in their one unpleasant interview that he and his new wife would prefer never to set eyes on her family again. The bridal pair certainly had no intention of maintaining cordial social relations with them. The fact that such relations would have caused him the greatest possible discomfort was not something Frederick was intelligent enough to admit to himself. He had been cheated – cheated – cheated! And to make matters yet worse, the fortune that had fallen into Sir Richard’s lap, the fortune that was Frederick’s by rights, was a matter of indifference to the Corinthian, for he was most enormously wealthy already!

The injustice of it left Frederick quite breathless with indignation, and he lay awake at night and brooded on it, his resentful mood inflamed yet further by his mother’s constant repining, and the painful reduction in circumstances that now began to bite. The news that he occasionally received from various quarters of Pen’s stellar progress through the fashionable world of Brighton was salt in his wounds. SHE did not deserve such a transformation in fortunes – HE did!

Frederick had of late years hung on the disreputable fringes of Corinthian society, although he was not in truth addicted to sporting pastimes. He had in the past occasionally gained momentary glimpses of his idol’s broad back as he passed into the hallowed inner sanctums of Jackson’s Saloon or Cribb’s Parlour, accompanied by some other distinguished sportsmen, beaver hat at a jaunty angle, many-capped greatcoat swirling at his heels. He was aware of the great deference with which everyone in such establishments, from the pot boy to the pet of the fancy, treated Sir Richard, and the indifference or disdain they accorded such as himself. He had always aspired such heights, and now all those dreams had turned to dust and ashes. And it was all Pen’s fault! His fragile amour-propre was of a nature very ill-suited to being thrown over for another, but when that other was his own hero, it was a thing scarcely to be borne! Frederick’s feelings on this matter were complicated, and some of their depths were not fully understood by himself, let alone by his family, who were, he thought bitterly, entirely absorbed in their own petty affairs, and unaware of his anguish. He spent a great deal of time drinking unwise quantities of Blue Ruin in Covent Garden with disreputable companions, and talking darkly about what he might do.

It was in this dangerous mood that Mr Frederick Griffin decided to travel down to Brighton. Mr Griffin was not able to afford to travel post – another cause for resentment, as he was willing to wager that his cousin and her new husband had travelled to the seaside town in their own carriage, with regular changes of horses, and in the greatest possible comfort. He could in fact ill afford the stagecoach fare, and was obliged to sit outside, in extreme discomfort, so that his state of mind, already furious, worsened yet further. And to top it all, he was obliged to put up in an out-of-the-way inn, and accept a dark, poky bedchamber at an outrageous cost, it being, he was told, the height of the season, sir, and lucky to get it.

It was fortunate for all concerned, perhaps, that he did not immediately encounter Pen and her new husband when he set out to explore the town on the evening of his arrival. He was none the less haunted by a vision of Sir Richard’s handsome face as he roamed restlessly about the elegant squares and streets. At length he found himself in a disreputable drinking den, such as could be found even in Brighton, but one still patronised by reckless young gentlemen of fashion in search of the less respectable amusements, and the seedy characters who preyed on them. The dingy room was crowded, and it was impossible to avoid being jostled by fellow drinkers, and overhearing snatches of their conversations. 

Frederick drained his bumper of gin, which was not by any means his first, and called for another, idly listening to the talk behind him. He realised in incredulous horror that the young bucks were discussing his cousin Pen, and her husband. He should have known that the Corinthian’s marriage was one of the chief topics of interest in Brighton that summer, but he had not considered it, and felt a sort of burning personal humiliation and anger as he eavesdropped. He did not in the least care when he heard the aspiring dandies dissecting Pen’s personal charms, for he had no thought for her honour. But when they began to speculate on Sir Richard’s virility, and one of them asserted that odds were being laid in the clubs as to when precisely the new couple would be blessed with a happy event, with the most coveted dates lying not as much as nine months in the future, suddenly he could not endure it. “I’m bidding for Easter Sunday!” one of the young blades roared. Griffin barged his way out, colliding carelessly with other drinkers and being roundly cursed for it. He would have liked very much to hit someone, but he was not physically brave, nor quite drunk enough to attempt anything so rash. 

He staggered back to his noisome lodging, and lay on the squalid bed, the room whirling about him, and vague, formless thoughts of revenge fermenting in his brain. He would not stand for it; THEY would see he would not stand for it!

The next morning he was very much the worse for wear, and rose at a late hour to find that no breakfast had been kept for him. He was obliged to go out into the bright streets, his head aching abominably, to seek sustenance. He found some, inadequate as it was, and lounged along the Steine in a disconsolate fashion, with very little idea in truth of why he had come to the town, or what he could hope to achieve there.

It was then, by ill luck, that he saw her. His cousin was seated in a stylish open barouche, conversing intently with two other ladies who were perfectly unknown to him. In his self-absorption, he had characteristically failed to consider that the sight of Pen in her new position must come as a considerable shock to him. He had been accustomed to seeing her as the dowdy young cousin in the threadbare gowns; she was very different now. She was dressed in an olive-green pelisse with military frogging, and a jaunty velvet cap with a bright blue feather that tickled her rosy cheek. Her golden curls were cut into a boyish crop that became her excessively and her eyes, which Frederick had never known to be so large and blue, were sparkling with humour and good health. She had never looked better, nor happier, and her cousin burned with rage to see it.

The consciousness that the very clothes on his back had in some sense been paid for by her, and that his dissolute lifestyle over recent years had been to a large extent subsidised by her without her knowledge or consent, should have put him to the blush, but it did not. Another person might have reflected that she had come into his family as a bereaved young girl, and been treated with coldness at best, and shocking exploitation at worse. If he had not, in justice to him, been the originator of it, as a youth, he had certainly acceded to it willingly enough, and profited from it, and thought to profit much more. Another person might have seen her joyful and been ashamed; he was not the man to think it.

His thoughts were all of himself – of everything she had gained, it seemed to him in his twisted way, at his expense. Her extremely stylish appearance and her very air of health and happiness seemed to mock him, in his wretched state, and bring home the many disadvantages of his position in the cruellest way. He felt he could not bear it.

The carriage moved on, the trifling obstruction in traffic that had obstructed its progress having cleared. Pen had been intent on her conversation, and had not perceived Mr Griffin standing stock-still at the side of the carriageway. She had not even noticed him! This seemed to add yet further to his sense of kindling resentment, and he reeled back, suddenly feeling quite sick, and impelled to seek out another drinking den, and drown his sorrows in gin. 

It was well for Pen’s tranquillity of mind that she had not seen her cousin Frederick staring at her with such a curiously fixed and furious expression on his sallow face. She had been very glad since her marriage to have little occasion to think about her aunt Almeria, her cousins, or any of the sad and lonely times she had endured under their roof. She had blossomed in Sir Richard’s love, and was resolute in putting the last five years of her life firmly out of her mind. If an occasional, fleeting thought of it occurred during the course of a day, she pushed it away. She felt she was in a fair way to becoming the person she would have been if her parents had not left her orphaned, but had survived to guide her to adulthood. Once again, as in her childhood, she knew herself loved, and felt herself valued. And Pen was beginning to suspect, as the weeks sped by, that she might perhaps have another reason to forget the past, and look to the future.  



	20. In What Chapter of his Bosom?

The Brighton season progressed, and the young Lady Wyndham was the sensation of it. There were always those ladies of the ton who were quick to say that that she was no great beauty, after all; that her figure was altogether too boyish, her face freckled, and her manners displeasingly outspoken, but it was generally felt that these ladies - many of them mothers of daughters who had cherished entirely unfounded hopes of winning Sir Richard’s favour – were merely jealous. Mr Brummell, Lady Sefton and Lady Jersey, among others, found Pen to be quite charming, refreshingly direct and with a style all her own. They professed themselves enchanted by the Corinthian’s evident love for his bride, and her adoration of him. 

There were those coarser gentlemen who thought all this the merest sentimental nonsense, and were vocal in mockery of Sir Richard’s infatuation with a beanpole of seventeen, but none of them was bold or foolish enough to say this to Sir Richard’s face, or within range of his famously acute hearing. No-one was anxious to receive one of his famous set-downs, or worse.

The couple were often seen on horseback, riding in the town or out across the downs, and it became a commonplace in the haut ton that Lady Wyndham showed to best advantage in her severe black riding habit, with the military frogging, masculine shirt points and immaculate neck-cloth, tied in a Wyndham Fall. It was clear that Sir Richard arranged this for her, and many young ladies (and possibly a few gentlemen) fanned themselves to cool their heated cheeks at the very thought of such an intimate act.

They were also to be seen sea-bathing, even in the most unpromising of weather, promenading about the bookshops of the town, attending the play – where Sir Richard was to be observed in thrall to the changing expressions on his wife’s animated face rather than to the action on stage - and dancing in the assemblies at the Old Ship and the Castle Inn. Pen began to surround herself with a coterie of high-spirited friends from her seminary, and a few young married women like herself.

Chief among these was one Mrs Argent, the wife of a promising major currently stationed in the Peninsula. She had until just lately been living there with him, and sharing his privations with a good deal of humour and resilience. She had recently returned to England, however, to prepare for the arrival of her first child, and was at present staying with her parents and numerous younger siblings in their Brighton house. It was just the kind of cheerful, slightly chaotic, laughter-filled home that Pen favoured, and had never previously known, and, perhaps partly as a result of this, the two young women quickly became firm friends.

Mrs Argent’s delicate condition had in no way lessened her energy, and she was currently engaged in planning an evening of amateur theatricals. She envisaged a series of scenes from Shakespeare, to be performed al fresco – weather permitting – in the grounds of a fine mansion not far from Brighton which belonged to her aunt and uncle. It was hoped that the aristocratic audience would applaud – which seemed extremely likely, as the performers would be their own friends and relations – and donate generously to her pet project, a charitable foundation for the care of military widows and orphans. 

Pen was taking tea with Mrs Argent one afternoon, surrounded by a gaggle of her noisy younger sisters, when the older lady set aside her cup and said, “My dear Lady Wyndham - Pen - I have been meaning this age to enquire if you would care to help me with my foolish plan. Ever since I first set eyes on you, I have had it in mind to ask you if you – and your husband too – would consider taking roles in one of the scenes. Indeed, I think you would be perfect!”

Pen’s eyes were already dancing. “I should like it above all things! I only wonder a little if Richard will be so enthusiastic. I shall have to ask him. Please tell me, what are the parts you would wish us to play?”

Mrs Argent leaned forward, her dark eyes vivid with mischief, and whispered in her companion’s ear. Pen let out a shout of laughter at what she heard. “Oh, famous! Truly I think we can hardly refuse you that! Only let me speak to Richard.”

When Pen returned home, she went in search of her husband, and found him reclining on the daybed on his favourite balcony, robed in a splendid silk dressing gown, lazily drinking coffee. He had recently been for an invigorating swim, and was filled with the virtuous tingling that comes with voluntary immersion in very cold water.

He smiled up at his wife. She was most fetchingly attired in a loose duster coat that precisely matched the deep blue of her eyes, a simple white muslin gown, and her favourite Circassian cap with the jaunty feather. Her eyes were brimming with mischief and she was obviously big with news. “What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?” he murmured.

He down his book and slid across the divan to allow Pen to sit beside him. She discarded her hat and coat, and joined him, taking the coffee cup from his hand and sipping from it, then setting it down on the side table. She kissed him, and then exclaimed, “Oh, Richard, you are simply freezing!”

“I have been swimming, and do not feel it. But if you are anxious, my love, by all means warm me!”

Some time later, she lay back in his arms, charmingly dishevelled, and said, “I have been with Mrs Argent today, and she has proposed the most wonderful scheme to me. You are aware of her plans for a theatrical evening, I am sure?”

“I have, and I look forward to attending. You know I am most fond of Shakespeare.”

“Would you not rather care to participate?” Her eyes were full of laughter and he knew he would find it very hard to refuse her anything she might desire. “Mrs Argent says she has had a pair of Shakespearean lovers in mind ever since she laid eyes on us – I wonder if you can guess who they might be?”

He looked down at her with a lurking smile. “Not Romeo and Juliet, I conjecture! I hope not Beatrice and Benedick, nor Petruchio and Katherine, since we do not bicker. Could it perhaps be Count Orsino and Viola?”

She laughed with delight. “Of course it is! What could be more amusing? It is quite a coincidence, for of course she knows nothing of our true history. But only imagine how diverting it will be, if you agree, Richard! I am persuaded that you know most of the lines already, for it is only to be a short scene, you know.”

He said lazily, “If music be the food of love, play on. Give me excess of it that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again, it had a dying fall… And so on. I am willing to make a fist of it, Pen, if you wish. I can see that you will make a perfect Viola. It will after all be pleasant to see you in breeches again, brat!”

She dimpled at him. “My father had a daughter loved a man, as it might be perhaps, were I a woman, I would your lordship! Indeed, I think it will be a most enjoyable end to our summer!”

He kissed her hand. “Orsino’s mistress and his fancy’s queen! Now come and change, Pen, for you know we are to dine with Lady Sefton! What a pity it is that my mother is not in Brighton, or she could have given us her Lady Macbeth. I am sure if any one of us was destined for the stage, it should be her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like many Heyer characters, Richard peppers his speech with references to Shakespeare - Julius Caesar, Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, Othello, probably others I've missed. (I've tried to continue this when writing his dialogue). More than that, you could argue that the whole of The Corinthian is a (surely deliberate?) riff on Twelfth Night: Richard at the start as a weary Orsino, Melissa as cold Olivia, and Pen as Viola/Cesario, orphaned and alone. Pen's scene in the orchard with Lydia works as a kind of pastiche of the Cesario/Olivia scenes, with the humour coming from one character not knowing that the other is a girl. Even Pen's desire to fight a fake duel with Piers plays into this. There's an enjoyable version of the play (1980) starring Felicity Kendall as Viola; she basically *is* Pen.


	21. And in No Friendly Fashion

Lady Wyndham began to feel herself settling into her new life, which no longer seemed so strange to her. She was busy with her preparations for the theatrical evening, and she was glad of it, for it distracted her from certain private concerns, which she did not wish to dwell on until her situation was more certain. She had her suspicions, as, she was sure, did her maid, but they did not speak of them. If her husband was aware, as she thought he too must be, he seemed to be waiting patiently for her to tell him in her own time. Was his lovemaking more tentative, more restrained of late? She recalled some memorable recent amorous encounters, including one in their private bathing machine on the beach, and another in their carriage on the way back from a remarkably tedious social engagement, and was forced to admit that it was not. Tentative, restrained: far from it. So perhaps he did not know, and certainly she must tell him soon enough. But for now, it was her secret, and she was content to have it so, and hug it to her for just a little longer.

She was no longer stared at wherever she went, and no longer felt the unpleasant sensation that she had previously been the topic of conversation every time she entered a room. She realised with relief that people were becoming accustomed to seeing her; she was no longer such a novelty. Even the most delicious subject of gossip must lose its savour eventually.

There was also another topic, far more fascinating because far more scandalous, that obsessed the polite world, and showed no danger of losing its fascination. In early July, Lady Heathcote had held a ball; Lord Byron had been there, with his new paramour Lady Oxford, and had most unfortunately encountered his spurned lover, Lady Caroline Lamb. There had been a public scene of the most appalling and – for a certain type of spectator - enjoyable nature, and Lady Caroline was apparently distraught, to the point at which the balance of her mind was said to be disturbed. Brighton society was all agog.

Pen was, naturally, not acquainted with any of the participants in this drama. She could not help but feel sorry for Lady Caroline, for she had a lively imagination and could readily apprehend the nightmare quality of what she had suffered at the party, her impulsive reaction, and how bitterly she must regret it now. She also felt pity for Lady Heathcote, who must have felt that she had sown the wind, and reaped the whirlwind. Beyond that, she had of course read Childe Harold, and the subsequent works, like any young lady, but did not feel this really qualified her to comment on the actions in private life of its author. 

Her husband, by contrast, knew the individuals involved. He described the Melbourne household as a nest of vipers, and the poet as a person who might be relied upon to do almost anything as long as it was outrageous, and leave it to be justified by his undoubted genius.

“Do you know Lord Byron well, Richard?” she asked one day as they rode across the Downs together.

He turned to smile at her, and thought what a delightful picture she made, with her golden curls riffled by the breeze and her vivid colouring set off by her severe black habit. “Not well. Our first encounter was…unfortunate, and I fear he does not like me very much. I have often encountered him at Jackson’s, and at prize-fights, but we are no more than civil to each other in passing.”

She could not resist. “And what happened at your first encounter?”

He laughed. “Oh, it is a sorry tale. It would be…eight years ago, I suppose. I was at the theatre one summer night with Louisa, George and my mother – I believe it was her birthday. Although the season was over, the theatre was quite full. Lady Saar was there, with Melissa and a party including an elderly peer of whom they had high hopes at the time, and they were all making great deal of him. We did not hear so much of our ‘long-standing betrothal’ in those days. But in one of the other boxes was a riotous party of big drunken schoolboys, celebrating a cricket match – all of them unknown to me, apart from one. Can you guess who, I wonder?”

“Cedric?” she said with a twinkle. 

“It would have to be Cedric, would it not?” he said. “They were causing a terrible commotion and it was all going to end, clearly, with some sort of messy brawl. Lady Saar was obviously mortified, and my mother begged me to go and extract him from their company, somehow, and take him away so that the Brandons would be spared further embarrassment. And I did my best…”

“How many were there of them?”

“Seven or eight, as I recall.” He shuddered. “I was barely twenty-one myself, and full of youthful arrogance. If someone asked me to do it now, I would give a very different answer. Of course my intervention provoked the very ruckus I was sent to prevent, as anyone with any sense could have predicted.”

“How could you be expected to deal with seven drunken schoolboys by yourself without causing a further uproar?” she said indignantly.

“I do not know, my love. I DID extricate Cedric and take him home, but not before the young cub Byron – a perfect stranger to me - chose to try to knock me down for the sheer fun of it.”

“And did he succeed?” she teased, for she was fairly sure of the answer.

“Now let’s see, Pen. I was a man grown, more or less, and sober, whilst he was a drunken schoolboy. Furthermore, he is, I suppose, about your height, and I am almost a head taller. He would have stood more chance of knocking me down by breathing brandy fumes on me. My reactions were faster, my reach much longer, and my punch more powerful. No, he did not succeed. It is nothing to boast of, but I put him down quite neatly, and whisked Cedric away before any more inebriated children decided to follow Byron’s example. And I can only imagine he recalls it, or some of it, for he avoids me if he is able. His amour propre must have been wounded.”

She giggled. “I am glad I never idolised him, as some of my friends at school did. He does not make a very heroic showing in that story.”

“I don’t think anyone does. And it was all for nought, as the elderly gentleman did not come up to scratch after all.”

“If he had done so, just think, Richard, we might never have met!”

“Unthinkable!”

As they turned their horses’ heads for home, the Corinthian told his bride that he had heard it whispered recently that the poet’s own half-sister, Mrs Leigh, had - along with Lady Oxford, of course - replaced Lady Caroline in his affections. Pen’s eyes grew very round at this shocking news, and Sir Richard said drily, “Yes, my love, this is the kind of thing your aunt – and how sincerely happy I am to reflect that we need never see her - will seize upon as evidence of the atrocious moral failings of society. 

“And talking of atrocious moral failings, brat, it is my distasteful duty to tell you that we have been summoned to meet the Regent, and attend one of his interminable soirees. I am sorry for it, but I suppose it was bound to happen.”

Pen was not unduly excited at the prospect, as large, crowded evening parties without dancing were, she had discovered, not her favourite form of entertainment, but owned herself curious to meet the Prince, of whom she had heard so much, and see the interior of his seaside palace, which she had so far only observed from the outside. She had heard great things of the oriental decorations of the interior, and would be happy to see them. 

Sir Richard laughed at this, and said, “Poor Prinny, how very disconcerted he would be to know that he, the former Florizel, is less of an attraction to a young lady than several hundred yards of Chinese wallpaper and any number of garish vases! Well, we shall go – in fact we must, for his invitations are more in the nature of commands – but I shall take care not to leave your side. I would like to think that youth and your status as a bride would protect you from his unwelcome attentions – and you could hardly be said to conform to his taste in women, I am very glad to say - but frankly I would not wager a large sum on it, especially if he should happen to be drunk.”

Pen shuddered at the alarming picture this presented. “He is not a friend of yours either, I collect, Richard?”

“Good God, no. When I first met him, ten years ago, I was flattered, as I suppose any young man would be, by any distinguishing notice he might choose to bestow on me. He was a most accomplished horseman and whip, and we used to talk of that, and of art, I suppose, on which subject he is extremely knowledgeable, far more than I. And even now he can be charming, when he chooses to be, and he was until lately a friend of George Brummell’s, which could be awkward. But the Carlton House Set is not one I aspire to. It always seems to me that they spend an entirely disproportionate amount of their time eating vast quantities of rich food in overheated rooms. I should think it must be very dull.”

Lady Wyndham bespoke a magnificent new gold evening gown for the occasion, for some of her current gowns were now unaccountably tight in the bodice and had had to be let out, and on the appointed day she found herself at her husband’s side in the Marine Pavilion, making her deepest curtsy to the Regent. She had seen him in the distance before, as was almost inevitable in Brighton, but she was slightly overawed by the sheer perfumed bulk of him, close up. He did indeed exert himself to be agreeable, and made no advances of any kind, although he did compliment Sir Richard on the beauty of his bride in slightly too warm terms that brought a flush to Pen’s cheek, so that she was very glad when His Royal Highness moved on to converse with others. 

She turned to look at her husband, but was wise enough not to speak, merely twinkling up at him, her eyes expressing all that it was not politic to say in public. She acknowledged that the series of rooms they had passed through was very fine, if perhaps a trifle overpowering in their décor, and was forced to agree with a hundred previous guests that the whole experience would have been considerably more pleasurable had it not been so unbearably hot.

It had to be said, too, that many of the ladies and gentlemen with whom the Prince surrounded himself were not wearing well: there was a great deal of creaking corsetry, and rouge, and false hair and teeth, and a general air of dilapidation and seediness. It occurred to Pen in her youthful vigour to wonder what they would look like when all artificial aids to health and beauty were set aside, and then she wished she had not thought it, for all at once the evening took on the air of a danse macabre.

It seemed probable that the soiree, and particularly the high-stakes gambling that was under way in one of the grand rooms, would go on for many hours yet, but Pen was looking a trifle heavy-eyed, and Sir Richard was himself conscious of the beginnings of the headache, and so they departed. The sea air was cool, and infinitely sweet and fresh after the stale atmosphere inside. Pen was greatly relieved to be out, but all the same she shivered suddenly as they made their way to their carriage, and drew her gauzy evening cloak to her throat more closely.

It was at that moment that she looked about her, aware of an indefinable sense of being observed, and in no friendly fashion. She stopped, and Sir Richard checked his pace too, and looked down at her enquiringly. There were several people passing by, both singly and in groups, but her attention was drawn to a lone, stocky figure who appeared to be watching the couple from the other side of the roadway. The watcher seemed at once to become aware of their scrutiny, and turned abruptly and strode away.

“Richard,” said Pen, “I know you might say I am being foolish, and perhaps I am, but I could swear that that was my cousin Fred!”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Byron did actually get into a drunken fight in a theatre when he was a teenager.


	22. Something of Great Importance

Sir Richard readily conceded that the half-glimpsed figure could in fact have been Mr Griffin; his wife must be allowed to know her own cousin when she saw him, and it was not after all beyond the bounds of possibility that a young gentleman with aspirations to fashion should choose to spend some part of the summer months in Brighton. It was the idea that he might have been observing them clandestinely – perhaps following their movements - that had disturbed Pen, and in truth disturbed Sir Richard too, though he maintained his unruffled, calm exterior when they spoke of it. 

He immediately entrusted one of his most reliable servants to engage in discreet enquiries as to where Mr Griffin might be staying. The task was not as difficult as it might have been, since it seemed unlikely to Sir Richard that his financial state would allow him to put up at one of the more fashionable inns. This proved to be the case, and so Sir Richard was very soon put in possession of his direction, and chose to pay him a morning visit.

The Corinthian lounged into the seedy-looking inn, immaculate as ever, his handsome face impassive and his manner serene. Only those who knew him very well would have been able to see that he was in a coldly angry mood that was likely to be dangerous to anyone who crossed him.

He met with a set-back, however; the harassed-looking elderly woman who appeared to be in charge of the hostelry informed him that the young gentleman had left the previous morning. Very early in the morning, in fact, and without paying his shot, she lamented. Naturally she could not be expected to have any idea where he had gone, nor how he had passed his time in Brighton.

It seemed that the awareness that Pen had seen him must have panicked Mr Griffin into precipitate flight. Sir Richard could do no more than to warn certain selected members of his household to be on the lookout for the young man, and to set the more horsey, disreputable-looking of his servants to making a casual-seeming search for him in the down-at-heel inns and drinking places that they in any case frequented in their hours of liberty. He also sent a man to enquire about passengers on the London-bound stages the day before, but received no very satisfactory answer: there was such a number of sallow, slightly shabby, dissipated young gentlemen going back to London from Brighton at any time that it was almost impossible to distinguish one from the other.

On his return home, he found Pen sitting on the balcony, looking rather helplessly at a large pile of gilt-edged invitations. He took them from her and set them aside, telling her that he had searched for Mr Griffin in vain and saying lazily, “I’m sure it was really nothing that ought to make you anxious, but if you should see him again, do tell me, or tell one of the coachmen or Jem. I have told them all to look out for him and to follow him if they are able.”

She smiled up at him and said, “Thank you, Richard, but I am sure I must have been mistaken. It was such a strange evening, and I was not feeling terribly well, and so perhaps it was a fancy that came into my head, and not real. I cannot think why Fred should be following me, after all, for he never cared two pins for me.”

“True, but I think he cared more than two pins for your fortune, my love, as did your aunt.” He sat beside her on the daybed and took her hands. “Are you feeling quite recovered from your indisposition, brat?”

Her answering smile was slightly awry and he said gently, “I have been waiting, and I think perhaps you have something of great importance to tell me?”

At this, Pen flung her arms around his neck and burst into tears. Sir Richard held her gently while she cried, and kissed her hair, then pulled back a little. He wiped the tears from her flushed cheeks with great tenderness and then said, “My dearest love!”

She sniffed damply, and said into his shirt, “Oh, I’m sorry, Richard, I did not mean to behave in such a ridiculous fashion! Truly I am happy! It was what I have always wanted, and I have not changed my mind. It is just that lately I have been feeling – not unwell, exactly, but a little odd, and liable to cry at the slightest thing. I suppose it must be quite usual in the circumstances.”

He looked down at her, his eyes completely serious for once. “Is that all it is, my dearest? You must tell me if you are repining. I cannot bear that you should find yourself unable to tell me what you are feeling, even if you think I should not like it.”

He had some thought of saying to her, it need not change our lives so very much, if you do not desire that it should, but he could not insult her by doing so. He knew her too well already to imagine that she would not love her child - their child - with all her ardent being, and indeed he could not wish her any different, for was her tender heart not one of the myriad reasons he had fallen in love with her?

She wiped her eyes, and reached up to rest a loving hand on his cheek. “No, I swear, Richard, I am happy. Very happy. I promise you I would tell you if I were not. I have some…apprehensions, but I am sure that is quite natural.”

He held her more tightly, and kissed her, and for once he was almost at a loss for words. Apprehensions! It was so like her high courage to pass off her quite natural fears so lightly. “Oh, my love, my little love!” he whispered at length. “I will take the greatest possible care of you – both of you - I promise!”


	23. An Al Fresco Entertainment

Rehearsals went forward apace, and Pen soon found herself more deeply involved than she had anticipated, as she was to appear not only as Viola but as one of Queen Cleopatra’s attendants, and also to sing a song at the climax of the evening. Mrs Argent had discovered from one of her school friends that she had a very pretty, affecting voice, and was determined to make use of it. Sir Richard was insistent that she try to rest a little each afternoon, but she was accustomed to be very active, and though he observed her closely he could see no signs of fatigue or illness, only that, as she had said, she was a little more emotional than usual. 

No further sign had been seen of Mr Griffin, nor could Sir Richard’s men find any trace of him in Brighton. It was to be supposed that he had left, and to be presumed that he had returned to London. The Corinthian had sent a trusted man off to Town on the stage to see if Frederick had returned to his mother’s house; he hoped that this would prove to be the case. He could think of nothing more that he could do, as Pen would not consent to have a guard set on her during her daily activities. There was, she argued persuasively, no reason in the world to think that Fred, even if he were still in Brighton, intended to do her any harm. He had shown not the least sign of it in the past, and it was hard to see what indeed he could hope to gain by it, apart from Sir Richard’s unwavering enmity. Pen admitted that Frederick’s younger brother Geoffrey was an unpleasant creature of whom she could believe anything, but she had always been in the habit of thinking of Fred himself as merely weak, and under the sway of his formidable mother. Pen refused to entertain such heart-burnings, and turned her mind to the play. 

She had by sheer force of character persuaded her sister-in-law to make an appearance; Louisa found herself quite swept away by Pen’s infectious enthusiasm, and when the world righted itself she discovered that she had somehow agreed to appear as Cleopatra, in her celebrated death scene. She was obliged to admit that she was enjoying herself immensely, and that she had Pen to thank for it.

At last the appointed day arrived. The weather seemed set to be fine, and Sir Richard and Pen made their way by carriage to the country mansion where the performance was to take place. Sir Richard’s part was to open the performance, after Mrs Argent’s young brother had recited the prologue from Henry V. The Corinthian was not required to wear a costume, as he was to perform his lines wrapped in a most magnificent cloak, so that he could shed it once he had finished, and join the illustrious audience to watch his wife and his sister. 

It was a slightly chaotic scene, as their carriage drew up by the stable block of the fine Palladian mansion. The landscaped grounds looked charmingly Italianate, as ladies, gentlemen and children in Elizabethan, Egyptian and Roman costume hurried here and there on urgent errands. The stage had been set on a slight rise, and gilt chairs were being laid out below for the distinguished audience. Large tents had been set up to enable the actors to change their clothes, and Pen hurried away to do so.

Presently she reappeared, charmingly flushed, in blue velvet doublet and hose and short cloak, perfectly in character as Viola/Cesario. She swept a deep bow. “What country, friends, is this?” she asked her husband.

“This is Illyria, lady,” he replied. He smiled down at her teasingly. “I shall not kiss you now, but do be assured that I shall do so later. For they shall yet belie thy happy years that say thou art a man!”

The afternoon moved towards evening, the elegant crowd assembled, chattering excitedly, and Sir Richard slipped onto the side of the platform and took up his position on a chaise longue to the left, as Mrs Argent’s young brother took his position to recite the prologue, “O for a muse of fire…” The boy moved aside once he had done, and Sir Richard raised his quizzing glass, to survey the audience before him.

He sighed languorously, and drawled, “If music be the food of love, play on…” It was perceived that Sir Richard was mocking himself, and others of the dandy-set, and there were ripples of appreciative laughter.

As the scene progressed, the observers were enraptured by the interplay between Sir Richard and his wife, who made a most enchanting Shakespearean heroine. Many ladies in the crowd were observed to dab away a tear when they heard her say, with entirely convincing passion, “Too well what love women to men may owe. In faith, they are as true of heart as we!”

The assembled ladies and gentlemen applauded most enthusiastically when the Twelfth Night scenes came to an end, and the couple were obliged to take many bows. But at last Sir Richard was able to take his seat in the audience, and Pen hurried away to change for her Egyptian scene. 

Sir Richard sat back, lazily enjoying the sight of many of his friends and acquaintances in outlandish dress, performing well-known scenes from the plays with varying degrees of competence. He looked forward with great anticipation to seeing Louisa as the Serpent of Old Nile, and here she was at last, in diaphanous costume, alarming wig, and attended by Pen, with a basket of asps. He admitted when it was done that his sister had performed her part extremely well, and movingly, somewhat to his surprise; he could only conjecture that she had inherited more of their mother’s dramatic bent than he had previously supposed.

At the climax of the entertainment, Pen came forward in her Elizabethan boy’s garb again, and sang in her high, pure voice,

“O mistress mine, where are you roaming?  
O stay and hear, your true love’s coming,  
That can sing both high and low.  
Trip no further, pretty sweeting.  
Journey’s end in lovers’ meeting.  
Every wise man’s son doth know.  
What is love, tis not hereafter,  
Present mirth hath present laughter:  
What’s to come is still unsure.  
In delay there lies no plenty,  
Then come kiss me sweet and twenty;  
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.”

There was a moment of enchanted silence, before tumultuous applause broke out, and Pen bowed and exited, blushing deeply. Then Mrs Argent’s young brother recited the epilogue from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He was a slight, dark youth, his voice on the cusp of breaking, and all the more affecting for that. So all was done.

Pen slipped away towards the tent to change her clothes for the ball that was to follow the performance. She was in a state of great exhilaration, for she felt with justification that the evening, and her own part in it, had gone very well.

The path was shaded by overhanging trees, and deserted at that moment as all the other performers had already made their exit in order to divest themselves of their costumes. Pen was not a young lady who suffered from an excess of sensibility, but she did start and let out an exclamation when a heavily cloaked figure stepped out in front of her. She had no notion who it was, nor what he could be doing there. She felt a sense of alarm suddenly, and looked wildly around her to see how she might make her escape, but the figure stepped forward and seized her in a manic grip, and attempted to drag her away. She struggled fiercely, and cried out, but all to no avail, for she was not strong enough, and no-one was near to hear her cries. At length she felt she should cease struggling, for fear of injuring herself, and the new life she carried inside her. She found herself bundled towards a waiting carriage, and forced into it. She heard a harsh word of command, the horses were whipped into motion, and the vehicle careered away at high speed.  



	24. It Seemed to Speak Eloquently of an Act of Violence

Sir Richard was for a while occupied in receiving the effusive congratulations of his acquaintance, but he was always on the alert for Pen’s arrival, and began by insensible degrees to be anxious. He set out to look for her, and encountered his sister, no longer costumed as the Queen of Egypt. When she was made to understand her brother’s concern, she accompanied him to the robing tents, but there was no sign of Pen anywhere. Her evening clothes were still laid out untouched where she had left them, and Sir Richard began to be deeply worried. They retraced her steps back towards the deserted stage, and were horrified to stumble across the blue velvet half-cape she had been wearing. The golden tasselled cord that had fastened it about her neck was torn, and it had been trampled into the path. It seemed to speak eloquently of an act of violence, and Sir Richard’s face grew pale as he regarded it.

He turned to his sister, a grim note in his voice. “Louisa, could you order up my carriage, and have it meet me at the gate? I will continue to see if I can find any sign of her, but I fear that this is the work of her cousin. We glimpsed him in Brighton a while ago, watching us, but I could find no trace of him when I looked for him. I blame myself for not taking him more seriously, and setting a watch about Pen!”

She wrung her hands helplessly. “How could you have known he intended such mischief, if what you say is true? I will go, Richard. No sense in talking. Will you send us word?”

“Of course I will! Never fear, Louisa, I will find her. Please make some excuse to Mrs Argent and her aunt – Pen is indisposed!”

Louisa nodded distractedly, and hurried away on her errand.

In a few moments Sir Richard was glad to see his carriage bowling down the tree-lined avenue towards him. It was being driven by his trusted coachman Peter, and he was very glad to see Jem at his side on the box. They had been two of the servants involved in the fruitless search for Griffin. He had relied on Peter for years, and knew Jem to be a lad of considerable ingenuity, judging by the scrapes he regularly got into, and one who was besotted with his new mistress. He felt sure that they would both be eager to help in any way they could, and that they would go to almost any lengths to ensure Pen’s safety.

He told them briefly what he feared had happened, and consulted with them as to the road they should follow. He felt it unlikely that Griffin would head back in the direction of Brighton, for fear of being observed, and so they drove inland, on the look-out for a disreputable sort of inn, where their quarry might be supposed to seek refuge. Sir Richard did not think that Griffin could seriously intend to abduct Pen and hold her for any length of time; he must realise that he would be pursued, and caught, and suffer very serious penalties. Nor did he think that Frederick had the self-control to travel any very long distance; the sheer audacity of what he had done tonight suggested that he was no longer entirely rational, and Sir Richard therefore feared that his anger towards Pen would demand more immediate satisfaction. He prayed that they would not be too late. The thought of what his love might at that moment be suffering was a torment to him, and he thrust it out of his mind, the better to concentrate on finding her. 

After one false start, and precious time lost, they came to a most down-at-heel looking hostelry. Sir Richard directed Peter to drive the carriage a little way past the small inn, and sent Jem back to reconnoitre their target. In a few moments the boy was back, saying breathlessly, “I think this is it, guvnor! There’s a carriage not long been brought in – the horses is still sweating and a boy is rubbing them down. The coachman and his mate are in the taproom, I saw them through the window, and they don’t look to ME like a respectable gentleman’s servants! Pair of rum culls, I’d take my affidavey on it. I think the private parlour must be at the front of the house, by the door, sir, but the blinds is down.”

Sir Richard leapt down from the carriage, and directed Peter to hobble the horses so that they would not bolt. He withdrew a pair of pistols from the concealed holder he had had installed inside the chaise and passed one of them to Peter. “Careful! It’s loaded. I will find my way into the parlour; Jem, you will come with me. Peter, go into the tap room and see if you can gain control. It should be obvious enough who are your targets; the rest are of no great consequence unless you feel they are in cahoots with the others. I will come and help you presently.”

As Sir Richard had hoped, the inn was in such a remote location that no-one had seen the need to lock the main door. He slipped inside, followed by his assistant, and Jem gestured in the direction of what he believed to be the private room. He set the lad to guard the door, and went deeper into the house in search of the landlord. Soon he returned, dragging a pallid, sweating individual by the collar. Sir Richard had his pistol trained at the innkeeper’s temple, and his expression made it clear that he was prepared to use it if he met with any opposition. He took a firm grip on the fellow and whispered, “Are they in there?” The terrified man nodded. “Very good. In a moment you will unlock that door. I should make it clear to you that the person you are harbouring has kidnapped my wife, and intends to do her harm. You have abetted him in doing so. If you are very lucky, she is uninjured. You will instruct your household to offer us no resistance, if you are wise. I am not the only armed man in this house. Do I make myself clear?” 

The man nodded, his expression one of abject fear, and at Sir Richard’s nod he stepped forward to unlock the parlour door, and stood aside, cringing.

Pen had suffered a wretchedly uncomfortable journey, for her captor had bound her hands, and gagged her, and she had been quite powerless to resist. She was flung from side as they careered along, and all her energies were bent on preventing herself from falling and suffering an injury. It was not until the carriage stopped, and she was roughly dragged out into the profound darkness of the deep countryside, and then through a rustic door and into what she perceived to be the parlour of a run-down inn, that she was able to see her captor unhooded and uncloaked, and recognise him for her cousin. “Fred!” she exclaimed in shock. “What in the name of heaven are you about?! What can you hope to gain by this?!”

He gave a wild, desperate laugh, and pushed her down into a chair, but did not answer her. He produced cords from his pocket, and tied her securely to the seat, and left her there, locking the door behind him. 

Straining to hear, she thought she could detect voices: at least one person other than her cousin. It was obvious that his coachmen were to some degree in his confidence, and perhaps others too, and she found herself in deep anxiety for her own safety. She had suffered a severe shock on seeing Frederick Griffin, and while she had at first thought that he could not seriously mean her harm – he was after all her cousin! – she now began to wonder at his state of mind, and his object. It was uncomfortably clear that he could not mean to rob her; on any other occasion she might be wearing a small fortune in jewels, but not tonight. Her ready intelligence told her that he must have planned her abduction with great care: followed her for some considerable time, and reconnoitred the grounds of the mansion, and chosen his moment carefully. It was rare indeed that she was alone, and for anyone meaning to do her mischief no better occasion could have been found. 

Her best hope, she considered, was that Frederick planned to hold her captive to extort a ransom from Sir Richard. She knew her husband well enough by now to be aware that he would offer to pay any sum to get her back, if that was what it took, but at the same time he would be looking for her already, and would not hesitate to act quite ruthlessly to set her free. This was all well and good; she would be very glad to be rescued, but it was not in her nature to wait for it. 

Her fear, though, was that Frederick’s aims might not be so rational, nor so reassuringly mercenary. If he was bent only on doing her physical harm, for some twisted reason she could not as yet divine, then she could not see how she could save herself, situated as she was, nor did she think it likely that her husband could arrive in time. She struggled against her bonds, but it was useless, for they were too firmly tied.

After some time had passed, Frederick re-entered the room, bearing a tray that contained wine – a bottle and one glass – and a substantial repast. He set it down at the table, then returned to lock the door and pocket the key. He began to lay the food out in front of himself, but placed nothing in front of Pen, an action of such petty spitefulness that it would have made her laugh in other circumstances. At last he seated himself, and looked across the table at her. She tried to show no fear on her face, but doubted that she had succeeded, for Griffin sneered at her, and said, “I see that you perceive the seriousness of your situation, Cousin! You may shout as loud as you like, for no-one will come to your aid. Your case is quite hopeless, and it gives me great satisfaction to see that you begin to realise it!”

“I do not understand why you should choose to abduct me in this quite ridiculous fashion, Fred! Indeed I have never done you any harm – quite the reverse! – so that I am quite at a loss to explain it!”

“Done me no harm?! You have ruined my life! I have been brought up in the expectation of a great position and fortune –“

“Not by me!” she said swiftly. “I never gave you the least reason to suppose that I would agree to marry you!”

“Your wishes were never of any consequence. You are just a girl. It was your place to do as you were bid. Your fortune was mine, and you had no right to take it from me, and give it to someone who does not even need it!” His voice cracked at the injustice of it all, and she began to realise the extent of his delusion.

He began to eat, and to fill and drain his wineglass, with a fair show of nonchalance, but she saw that his hands were shaking. Her hope now was that Sir Richard had found some means of following their trail, and that he was on his way, and quickly. She could only try to buy time, by keeping her cousin talking, but she feared provoking him by some unwise word. 

She said steadily, “I collect that you have been watching me, and following my movements, for some considerable time.”

He laughed. “You never considered what I might do – I dare say you had put me out of your mind entirely. You thought you could ruin my life, and take everything from me, and marry your Corinthian, and laugh at me, and live your perfect life! Now you will both see that I am not to be despised and set aside so easily! I have the power to hurt you, and through you, for you are nothing, I have the power to hurt him!” 

He saw the horrified expression that she tried to conceal, and jeered at her. He was pale and sweating, the alcohol beginning to take effect, and she was becoming very frightened. “Oh no, I do not mean to kill you, Cousin! I am no murderer. Once I have done with you, you can go back to your precious husband, and see if he still wants you. I doubt he will. That will be revenge indeed!”

“You are quite mad,” she said with resolution. She was determined not to let him suspect her condition, which would offer him an all too easy way to take his vengeance on her and on her husband. What would it take – a blow? A kick? “You don’t know Richard. He will take me back whatever you do to me, for he loves me in a way that is entirely beyond your comprehension. But if you…he will kill you. I swear it’s true. He will track you down and kill you.”

“Let him try!” he said with shaky bravado, tossing back another bumper of wine. 

“Think of my aunt and uncle, and your brother!” she said desperately. “You will bring disgrace on your family, and ruin them. Can that be what you want?”

He laughed manically. “I care not a jot for them! Let them go to perdition, together or separately! I owe them nothing!”

Pen fell silent, for she could think of little to say that could alter his mood or improve her situation. At length he had done with his meal, and pushed his plate aside. He sat sprawled in his chair, owlishly surveying her, and she tried to keep her face impassive. Her pride and her strong instinct for survival came to her aid; she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing the extent nor the nature of her fear.

He rose from his seat and crossed the room to her, somewhat unsteadily. He struggled with the cords that tied her to her chair, but at length managed to unfasten them, and dragged her up to stand very close to him. Her wrists were still bound, but more loosely, giving her considerable play of motion in her hands. She felt her situation to be somewhat improved, and looked about the room, without appearing to do so, for a weapon. There was a set of fire irons by the grate, one of them a rustic poker that looked reassuringly heavy.

He grasped her by the collar of her shirt and leaned drunkenly towards her, as if to kiss her, a sneer on his sallow face. She turned her head aside to avoid the hot reek of his breath, and at that moment both of them heard the scrape of a key in the lock. He released her, and took an uncertain step towards the door. 

It was enough. Pen darted away, and seized the large brass handle of the poker between her bound hands. She did not hesitate, but slashed it upwards, striking her cousin full in the face with all the force of which she was capable. An anger that seemed to come from deep inside her gave her strength, and her aim was good, so that he reeled back, blood pouring from his lips and nose. He staggered and fell, and Pen kicked him hard, glad of her heavy masculine footwear.

So when Sir Richard and Jem burst into the room they observed not a damsel in distress, but a flushed and furious young person in torn blue velvet, bloody poker in hand, her captor now helpless and groaning at her feet. Jem sprang forward and seized the cords that had held Pen to the chair a moment earlier, using them to tie Griffin’s hands, and the Corinthian strode across the seedy room and took his wife in his arms. “My love! Thank God! I perceive you have rescued yourself, as I knew you would! Are you harmed? Has he hurt you?!”

She dropped her weapon with a clatter and clung to him, aware suddenly that she was shaking. “No, truly, Richard, I am quite unhurt, but he did mean to do me a grave injury. I think he must be quite deranged! I am so very glad to see you, and Jem too!”

Jem grinned up at her, and shook his groaning captive as a terrier might shake a rat. “Werry glad to see you in fine fettle, m’lady!”

Sir Richard swept up Griffin’s discarded cloak, and wrapped it tenderly about Pen. He picked at the cords that still bound her wrists, and released her. “Let us leave this unpleasant place as quickly as possible. Jem, take her ladyship to the carriage and make ready to leave. Do not stray from her side until I return.” 

Pen consented to be led out of the parlour, and she was in fact very glad to leave it. As she left, she saw Sir Richard’s face. He was standing over the helpless figure on the floor, and for a moment his expression looked positively murderous. She felt that Frederick was more fortunate than he could know to have been floored by her, and not by a much more powerful blow from her husband.

Pen waited in the carriage, loyally guarded by Jem, for a long moment, until Sir Richard and Peter emerged. They conferred briefly, and then the two servants went back into the inn, and Sir Richard opened the door and lifted her down. He held her in his arms and buried his face in her curls, and his voice was unsteady as he murmured, “My love, when I thought I had lost you -! Let us not speak of it now. I am obliged to drive myself, for Peter has another task. Would you prefer to stay in the carriage in comfort, or sit beside me on the box?”

Pen smiled up at him, her unconquerable spirit strong as ever. “Need you ask? Of course I will sit beside you. Let us go!”


	25. A Person of Great Ingenuity

Pen sat very close to her husband as they threaded their way through the moonlit country lanes, back towards Brighton. She rested her head on his shoulder and was quiet for a little while. But presently she said, “What have you instructed Peter and Jem to do with Frederick? I collect you do not mean to give him into the custody of a constable?”

His face was still a little pale and grim as he glanced down at her. “No, I do not! I have no taste for scandal in the family. And yet he deserves to be most severely punished. I want him out of England, far away from you. Your admirer Jem has come up with the most ingenious scheme. He knows of a disreputable inn by the coast where the landlord is a connection of his and press gangs have been known to operate. Your cousin will be knocked unconscious – you have already made a good start on that, my love! – and when he awakes he will find himself aboard ship, with a new career and a new life ahead of him. Jem will make sure that enough of his history goes with him so that any objections he makes to the new state of affairs will go unheeded. He will claim to be a gentleman, and unfairly taken, but it will do him no good. Perhaps the navy will kill him; I cannot guess, nor can I say I care. Once they have disposed of him, Jem and Peter will hand over the carriage to their disreputable associates, who will make it disappear in short order, and ride the horses back to Brighton.”

“We owe them an enormous debt of gratitude. Oh, Richard, I was never so glad to see anyone in my life!”

“Nor I, my little love. I consoled myself during that most unpleasant hour with the reflection that you are a person of great ingenuity and resourcefulness – you see, I admit it at last! – and would surely free yourself if the slightest chance presented itself. And so you did. But I was terrified. I could not contemplate living without you.”

She buried her face in his sleeve and said shakily, “Let us not think of it! I could not believe that Fred had wrought himself into such a state, Richard. He really seemed to feel that I had done him some great injury, and deserved to suffer for it. And what did I ever do but refuse to marry him, when indeed I always knew he did not care two pins for me, and only wanted my fortune!”

“I think your aunt is greatly at fault, for when I met her it appeared to me that she had by insensible degrees persuaded herself, and I suppose him, that all her actions towards you were justified; that they were entitled to your inheritance, to dispose of as they pleased, and that your wishes were of absolutely no consequence. It must have been spoken of in the family as quite a settled thing, and between them your money was already spent, in building cloud-castles for the Griffins to live in.”

She shuddered, and snuggled even closer to him. “I suppose we must find a way of letting my aunt and uncle know what has happened to him, Richard. I know Aunt Almeria is in large part to blame, but it would be cruel to let him disappear and leave them in ignorance. They should know he is alive, at least.”

She could tell from his voice that he was smiling. “Your warm-heartedness never ceases to surprise me, my love. Many people in your situation – and after they ill-treated you for so long, too – would feel that they deserved to suffer, and take pleasure in it.”

“I cannot take any satisfaction from imagining them in a torment of uncertainty, perhaps for years, however much they have brought it on themselves. Will you find a way of letting them know?”

“I will, if you wish it, brat,” he promised.

The pillared entrance of their house, with lamps glowing under the portico, was a comforting sight when they reached it. Servants hurried to take the horses’ heads, and Sir Richard leapt down from the box and took Pen in his arms, still wrapped in the large cloak. 

He carried her through the double doors and up the broad stairs to her bedchamber, where he set her down on the bed. She began rapidly to undress herself, relieved to be out of the blue velvet, which she seemed to have been wearing for days, and he brought her a fresh nightgown, and a cloth to wipe her face and hands. Pen found herself suddenly exhausted, trembling slightly at the realisation of what she had so nearly undergone. She chided herself mentally for her weakness, but was at once too full of emotion to speak, and Sir Richard with his quick understanding was aware that she was perilously close to collapse.

She climbed wearily into bed, and Sir Richard bent and kissed her tenderly, saying, “I want nothing more than to hold you in my arms, my dearest, and reassure myself that you are safely restored to me. Only let me send a message to Louisa, for I promised I would, and she must be most anxious.” She smiled up at him, her eyes brimming, and settled back into the pillows with a deep sigh.

When he returned to her a few minutes later, bearing a cup of steaming liquid, he found that she had fallen asleep, her face pillowed on her hand, no doubt exhausted by her ordeal and the day that had proceeded it. He stood looking down at her for a moment, and then went to undress. Soon he slipped in beside her and moved close to her. As if aware of his presence, she made a soft, contented noise in her sleep, and rolled into his embrace. He listened to her regular breathing; it was a long time before he was able to relax into slumber, his arms wrapped protectively around her.

In the morning they came perilously close to arguing, for Sir Richard insisted on bringing a doctor to see her, and would not listen to her objections. At last she conceded that his concern was not unreasonable, but it was with a slightly mutinous face, then, that she greeted the distinguished elderly gentleman on his arrival. 

Her maid showed him in, and stood by discreetly as the medical gentleman sat at Lady Wyndham’s bedside. He was, he told her, greatly shocked to have heard from Sir Richard that the young lady had been set upon by ruffians, intent on robbing her of her jewels. The Corinthian had also told him that his bride was in a delicate condition, and so Sir Thomas asked her a great many questions and listened shrewdly to her answers. He was glad to hear that she led a very active life, and that she had a good appetite. He asked with great tact what exactly she had undergone at the hands of her attackers, and was greatly relieved to hear that although she had been seized, and dragged about, she had not been outraged in any way, nor had they otherwise laid violent hands on her. She assured him that she had slept well, was in no pain and had suffered no bleeding. He examined her superficially, and at last told her that she was to be congratulated: she appeared to be in excellent health, and to have suffered no ill effects, apart from some bruising and chafing of her wrists, which he tutted over, and for which he prescribed a soothing ointment. He told her that she should certainly stay in bed for two or three days, and to call for him instantly if she experienced any alarming symptoms, but reassured her that he did not anticipate her needing any assistance.

He conveyed this encouraging news to Sir Richard, who was greatly relieved and shook him warmly by the hand. 

Upon that moment Lady Trevor arrived, bearing a posy of flowers, and he conducted her upstairs to see Pen. They found her curled up in bed, reading the novel that had been on her bedside table since the day before her wedding, and apparently deeply absorbed in it. She set it down when her family entered and said, “Louisa, how kind of you to visit me! Indeed, I am quite well – I have suffered no consequences from my adventure, I assure you. Let us not refine too much on it!”

Louisa had come to know her new sister-in-law a little over the past few weeks, and was no longer surprised, though she was still somewhat over-awed, by Pen’s cool reaction to an experience that would have many other females in strong hysterics for a sennight. But she sat down beside her now and agreed that it would do no good to dwell on the unpleasant events of the day before. “Let us instead speak of your great success last night! I swear everyone is in raptures over your performance!”

“Let us rather speak of yours, Louisa! I have never in my life seen anything so affecting as your death scene! I was in floods of tears myself as your attendant, and could barely speak my lines! I am sure a hundred people must have complimented you on it!”

Lady Trevor blushed becomingly, and admitted that she had received some slight praise from her acquaintances before she left the fete champetre which had followed the play. “I am sorry that such a shocking thing happened, Pen – no, I shall not speak of it! – and that we all missed the party. We merely made our excuses, and yours, and left, but I do think you would have enjoyed it excessively. The moon so big, and all the little lamps glowing among the trees, and everyone dancing and in such high spirits.”

“Yes,” said Sir Richard thoughtfully, “that does seem unfair, that you should have missed it. Shall we have a party, Pen, do you think? I am sure you deserve it.”


	26. Lady Wyndham's First Ton Party

Pen had never had occasion to organise a ton party before, and would have forgotten a thousand important things, she owned, but with Louisa’s help she was able to order everything to her satisfaction. It would be a very informal gathering to mark the end of summer, for their departure from Brighton was set for a couple of days later. They would spend a few days in London, putting their affairs in order and replenishing Pen’s wardrobe for the coming autumn, and then they would leave for Queen Charlton, and what Pen would always feel to be her true home. She had enjoyed her summer – most of it! – but she felt a deep need to show her husband the place where she had been born, and lived happily until her father died. It was truly there, she felt, that they would really begin their married life, and set up their family.

The party began as dusk was falling. Pen had arranged for dozens of tiny coloured lanterns to be strung among the trees of the enclosed garden, and groups of chairs to be set in convenient places, so that people could talk and take their ease. A small group of musicians played on the veranda, and lavish refreshments were laid out inside, as well as a card room for the inveterate gamblers. The guests began to arrive, and Pen was soon drawn away by Mrs Argent, and some of her fellow amateur actors, who wished to re-live their moments of triumph. 

Sir Richard stood on the balustraded terrace that looked out over the sea, and the town of Brighton to the right. The lamps were being lit down there, and from this little distance the resort presented an enchanting aspect, as of a fairy kingdom. He remarked as much to Mr Brummell, who had arrived most astonishingly early, by his standards, and stood beside him in contemplation. “Yes,” he agreed pensively, “one might indeed think it a splendid place, full of wit and beauty, if one did not know that the truth is quite otherwise. Only consider its presiding genius! But I become ironical, when instead I should be congratulating you on a charming party, Wyndham.”

Sir Richard smiled and said, “I have done very little; the credit is all my wife’s.”

Mr Brummell said, “’My wife!’ I see how easily you have accustomed yourself to those words, for they fall from your lips so fluently, and I observe that you take a pleasure in saying them, and yet a few scant weeks ago you could have had no idea of such a thing. It must be a very curious sensation – I suppose I shall never know.”

“Why should you not? You are quite correct, I had not the slightest desire to be married until I met Pen. But I find myself liking it excessively. Surely at times you must tire of this empty bachelor life, with its stale round of expensive pleasures. Why not settle down, Brummell? Thou art sad; get thee a wife!”

The Beau smiled rather forlornly. “Where shall I find the right woman, at this late date? Or perhaps I already have, and she has the deplorable taste to be wed to another. In either case, it is a melancholy reflection, and I push it away! Let us find your captivating bride, so that I may pay her my compliments.”

Sir Richard knew that his friend had been whispered to cherish a tendre for a lady of very high – indeed, royal - rank, who could never leave her husband, even though he cared little for her, and he also knew that Brummell would never speak of it, nor appear to take his own deeper feelings seriously, and so he readily allowed him to change the subject, and to return to the garden, and the gaiety there.

A little later, Pen stepped back and surveyed the scene in the garden with satisfaction. Everything seemed to be running smoothly: the weather was perfect, the evening air just warm enough, and all her guests appeared to be enjoying themselves. She chuckled inwardly at the new and surprising thought of herself as a successful society hostess whose invitations were coveted by the fashionable set. For a moment it was almost as if she observed herself from outside, and hardly recognised what she saw. Once again she wondered what she would have said if someone had suggested to her a few months ago that she – the lonely orphan who lived with her uncaring relatives and scarcely had a gown that was fit to be worn - would be spending a summer evening dressed in opulent silks and jewels, hosting an exclusive party for the haut ton, with her elegant, adoring husband at her side.

She heard a slight movement behind her, and turned to see the Corinthian smiling down at her. He put his finger to her lips. “Sshh! Quickly, while no-one observes us!” He took Pen’s hand and pulled her into the friendly shadow of a tree, taking her in his arms in the deep shadows. 

She melted into his embrace and they kissed hungrily. She caressed his back under his coat and waistcoat; it was warm through his thin shirt. His hands slid over the slippery silk of her gown, lifting her, pulling her close, closer against him. His hard thigh was between hers, and he trailed kisses down her neck and over her bare shoulders. He was very strong, and she had every reason to know that he could easily support the weight of her body with his. He could lift her up and take her here, in the warm darkness, with the elite of society just a few feet away. The idea shocked and excited her in equal measure.

At that moment he sighed against her skin and reluctantly loosened his hold on her, saying, “We must go back to our guests, alas! Do not look at me like that, brat, with your eyes shining and your lips parted, or I shall be compelled to take you into the summerhouse and make urgent love to you.”

She giggled. “The summerhouse is full of people. It would cause a great scandal – imagine, a gentleman making love to his own wife! We had far better stay here for our…urgent lovemaking.”

He reached out, as if mesmerised, to caress her face, and rubbed a finger over her sensual lower lip, pushing into her mouth a little, stroking the sensitive inner flesh. He felt her lips curve into what he felt sure was a wicked smile, and then she curled her tongue around his finger. Against his own volition, his body curved towards hers, and he found himself cupping her soft cheek, pushing the finger deeper into her warm, wet mouth, and she received it avidly and sucked on it, gently and then harder. He could see the gleam of her eyes in the darkness, and he was sorely tempted.

But he must not. They might be seen, and although the danger of discovery was arousing, it was also real, and not to be risked. He groaned, and pulled his finger slowly from her eager mouth, although he still cradled her face in his hand. He said huskily, “The party will be over soon, and all the guests gone, and then, my love, we will have all the time in the world for lovemaking. Be sure that I will hold you to your promise.”

She did not say, What promise? but pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss into his palm, the tip of her tongue darting out as she did so.

He groaned. “Hussy! Now go, before I call your bluff!”

“What bluff, sir?” She grinned saucily at him over her shoulder, blew him a kiss – the minx! - and slipped lightly away to re-join the party. He followed her more slowly, adjusting his neckcloth as he went, smiling a little to himself.

At length the syllabubs and lemon cakes were eaten, the punch, champagne and wines drunk, and the bright lanterns were starting to flicker and go out. Guests were beginning to take their leave, proclaiming it a splendid party, so refreshingly relaxed, quite the most enchanting of the season, and a credit to Sir Richard and to his bride.

The Corinthian found himself beside Louisa. She was somewhat flushed, and it seemed possible that she had imbibed a little too much of the champagne cup. At any rate she seemed to have enjoyed herself very much, and told her brother so with unaccustomed vigour, very clear enunciation, and a great deal of affection.

He smiled at her a little ironically. “I am very glad to hear it, my dear. It has been a memorable summer, has it not?”

“It certainly has! And we leave in a few days, too. Shall we see you in London?”

“I think we must hold a family dinner, for Mama, for after all we have not seen her very often, and she would otherwise be sure to feel herself slighted, if we depart for Somerset without marking the occasion.” Sir Richard and Pen had driven over to Worthing on a couple of occasions to see the Dowager, and she had welcomed them fondly enough, by her lights, but the visits had not been prolonged, as Sir Richard found his mother’s favourite resort – and indeed his parent herself - gloomy and oppressive.

“It may well be, Louisa, that we have no chance to converse in private in London, and then we shall be gone into Somerset, and so I think I must tell you our news now. Can you not guess it?”

Louisa looked quickly at Pen, who stood a few feet away from them on the veranda. She had tiny flowers woven into her hair, and her gown of gold silk, which was cut fashionably low across the bosom, clung lovingly to curves of breast, belly and thigh that Louisa did not recall being there when they had shopped for gowns together at Madame Franchon's. She had certainly put on a little weight over the summer, and, flushed and laughing, she had her arm about Mrs Argent, whose dark hair contrasted most effectively with her bright curls. The pair looked like nothing more than a study for a charming classical painting entitled Venus and Ceres, or Fecundity, and Louisa was forced to the inevitable conclusion.

“Richard! Is it indeed true?! Oh, look at her, she is blooming – how could I not have perceived it before?!”

She found herself obliged to hug her brother, which he accepted with good grace. “I have only told you, Louisa – please do not spread it abroad. It is very early, and we cannot know what might happen. You must tell George, of course, but no-one else. I am serious! I will write to you from the West Country when we are more secure of it.”

She was all at once a little tearful, and said, “Of course not! My dear, I am very happy for you!” 

She took her leave with her husband, embracing Pen and offering somewhat incoherent congratulations on the success of the party. Sir Richard could not doubt that his brother-in-law would be in possession of the news before the carriage left the driveway.

At length everyone had departed, and Sir Richard had collected most satisfactorily upon Pen's earlier unspoken promise to him, and then, as was only fair, paid her back in her own coin of pleasure. The couple lay in their accustomed place on their balcony couch, listening to the soothing sound of the waves dragging the pebbles to and fro on the beach below. “I collect you have told Louisa our news,” Pen said with twinkling eyes. “Richard, was she…inebriated? She hugged me several times most affectionately, and she was weeping on me. I thought it most unlike her!”

“Oh, you are most unfair, Pen!” he laughed. “She was merely a little up in the world, and it is pleasant to see that she did not become aggressive, or try to pick a quarrel with anyone, or attempt to knock them down, as some people do, you know, when they are disguised. And I do think she is most sincerely happy for us, and has become really fond of you, my love, as how could she not?”

“And I of her. To think that I was so nervous about meeting her, and all your family, such a short time ago. It seems quite ridiculous now.”

“Oh, you think you are in good odour with them already, my lady? Wait until my mother hears our news. Even she will be forced to admit that my choice of a wife is to be commended.”

She chuckled. “I expect she will find some way of casting gloom over us, but I do not regard her, Richard, if you do not.”

“Of course I do not. I am prepared to be in charity with her, at a distance. London to Somerset seems a reasonable separation. I believe she will be spending some of the autumn with Louisa in Berkshire, so we are relieved of all responsibility for her. And are you in good spirits, Lady Wyndham, after all the adventures of the summer? Is marriage to your liking, now you have a little experience of it?” he asked her, a lurking smile in his grey eyes.

“Oh, Richard, indeed it is! I am most ridiculously happy! And I hope you are too!”

He pulled her closer into his arms and said, his voice unsteady with emotion, “My little love! I cannot begin to tell you how joyful you make me!"


	27. The Dowager's Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heyerfan asked to see the Dowager again, so here she is...

Upon their return to London, Pen was kept busy with the necessary bustle involved in preparing her wardrobe for the autumn and winter. Muslins, gauzes and light silks were to be thought of no longer; now the discussions were all of heavier fabrics, of kerseymere, and swansdown, and velvet. Pen chose day and evening gowns in deep, rich jewel colours that her Tudor ancestor might have worn: her favourite midnight blue, of course, moss green, garnet, plum, toffee brown, and dull gold.

The Dowager Lady Wyndham had an excellent eye for colour, and conferred a great favour on her new daughter-in-law by bestowing on her a bolt of precious, unused material, dredged from some attic trunk, which dated, she said in trembling accents, from the time of her own marriage to Sir Edward some thirty-four years previously. Pen could do no other than thank her prettily, and accept the gift. As far as she was aware, Louisa had not yet shared the secret of her delicate condition, and so this sign of approval was all the more remarkable.

“But Richard,” she said in semi-serious dismay a little later, “what am I to do with it? If this is a test, I am sure I shall fail. It’s lovely, but such heavy brocades and bold patterns are quite outside the current mode.”

Sir Richard raised his quizzing glass to inspect the fabric, which stood stiffly and incongruously in a corner of their Yellow Saloon. Pen had directed a footman to unroll it a little, and it was indeed lovely, with its deep palette of blues – lapis and peacock – silvery greys, and gold, undimmed by its years in storage. His wife was undoubtedly right in every particular. It was a relic from the previous century, and it was long indeed since any but the oldest and most stubborn lady had worn a garment made from such an anachronism. The current mode for narrow gowns would mean that there was scarcely room for one repeat of the pattern in a skirt width; it would look ridiculous to modern eyes, quite apart from the stiffness of the fabric. And yet his mother would beyond question be offended, if her gift were not treated with due respect. Being offended was one of the Dowager’s dearest hobbies, she was a virtuoso at it, and it was clearly unfair that Pen should suffer her displeasure so early in their relationship, and for such a foolish reason. What was to be done with the wretched, beautiful stuff, so that all parties could be satisfied?

He smiled a little; a germ of an idea was forming in his brain. “And yet the colours would become you greatly, if something could be contrived,” he said. “Let me think on it, my love. Who could have predicted that the married state held such unexpected pleasures, along with the - ah - expected ones?”

Thus it was that Pen found herself, the next day, in the hallowed inner sanctum of Sir Richard’s preferred tailor, John Weston, in Old Bond Street. 

It seemed quite possible that Sir Richard was Mr Weston’s favourite customer. Mr Brummell, of course, could be said to have founded the tailor's fortunes, and it was no doubt immensely gratifying, and productive of other business, to be known as the preferred coat maker to the most stylish gentleman in Britain (and hence, naturally, the world entire). But Mr Brummell, sadly, despite his other virtues, did not reliably pay. He was, if anything, a heavy charge upon the establishment. There was the Prince Regent, of course, long known as the First Gentleman in Europe. The Prince could be regarded as a long-term investment: his enormous bills would ultimately - over the course of years, perhaps - be paid, with interest, if not by himself, by a less than grateful nation. To be tailor to His Royal Highness was no small thing, to be sure, though he was an exacting, capricious customer, who demanded that anything he ordered be brought to him, complete in every particular, the very next day, and the undertaking of clothing him to his satisfaction was not without its technical challenges. 

The Corinthian presented none of these difficulties. He had the figure of a piece of Greek statuary, or a pet of the fancy. He was unfailingly charming; proverbially, as charming to his social inferiors as to his peers. He offset Weston’s finest creations to perfection, without need for anything so vulgar as advertisement. Gentlemen knew that he would not dream of ordering up his superfine coats from anyone but Weston. It was, alas, true that the touch of Mr W was not in itself quite magic, and hopeful springs of fashion did not often find themselves transformed, as they might have wished, into Beau Wyndham’s mirror image merely by the donning of a new coat. But hope springs eternal, so Weston did not suffer by their disappointments. 

The chief argument in Sir Richard’s favour, however, was the fact that he was able - and, what was by no means the same thing, willing - to pay his tradesmen’s bills promptly, and without any need for highly disagreeable rendering of accounts long past due, or threats of sponging houses. No wonder, then, that Mr Weston and his various minions greeted Sir Richard and his bride with great deference, and listened to his particular request with flattering attention and quick comprehension. There was even a young person in a sober grey gown and mob cap to take Lady Wyndham’s measurements, behind a discreet curtain. Ladies were of course not entirely unknown in the Old Bond Street establishment, as it was quite the thing for fair equestriennes (both respectable and far otherwise) to commission their riding habits from gentlemen’s tailors. There would be not the least difficulty in realising the Corinthian’s design. “I am sure it will do very well indeed,” Mr W was pleased to opine, with a faraway look in his eyes. “It quite takes me back, if I may say so, my lady, to handle such a fine French fabric again after all these years.”

A short while later, the Dowager Lady Wyndham and her daughter Lady Trevor were summoned by polite missive to St James’ Square, to partake of refreshment and inspect the fruit of Sir Richard’s brain, and Mr Weston’s (or more properly his workshop’s) labours. 

When tea had been taken, and autumn plans discussed, Pen’s abigail, Kemp, opened the larger of the three parcels set out in her mistress’s sitting room, shook out its substantial folds, and assisted her in donning the garment over her morning gown. 

It was something in the nature of a pelisse, but not at all in the current style, chiefly because of the opulent old fabric, paired with a certain masculinity and freedom in the cut. Perhaps it could best be described as a banyan, but that did not quite hit the mark either. There was no waist; it hung in rich folds from the shoulder. The sleeves were full, with deep cuffs, and it was fastened with elaborate frogging down the front. At wrist and wide collar, it was lined with silvery grey fur. It set off Pen’s height, her short golden curls and slim neck to perfection, giving her something of the air of a dashing young prince from a Russian fairy-tale. 

“Mmm, yes...” said Sir Richard, his eyes gleaming under his heavy lids. “Decidedly, yes.”

His wife blushed rosily, and his sister shot him a reproving glance, but was forced to admit that the coat was a triumph and that Pen looked glorious in it; even the Dowager acknowledged that it was most becoming, although of course she attributed this fact her own excellent taste in choosing the fabric in the first place. “I expect it may prove useful, my dear, and I am glad of it, as I am sure it must be terribly cold in Somerset in the winter,” she said, in tones that suggested that Somerset was well known to be one of the remoter, more inhospitable regions of the Arctic. “I hope, Richard, you have made sure that it is snugly lined with flannel.”

“Not flannel, ma’am, but swansdown,” her son replied gravely. “The very softest and warmest that could be obtained. I wish Pen to be entirely comfortable.”

His mother was impressed by his forethought, and told him so. “I do think that marriage is already having a beneficial effect on your character, dear Richard, as I always knew it would.” She showed some slight disposition to become tearful at this thought, but Sir Richard merely thanked her for the compliment, and if his eyes were twinkling at some private reflection, she at least did not observe it.

He directed Kemp to open two smaller parcels, which were revealed to contain an opulent fur hat, in the Russian style, and a huge, silky muff. When the outfit was complete, Pen looked quite breath-taking - ready, surely, at a moment’s notice for a sleigh ride in the snow by moonlight, if such an adventurous diversion were to be offered to her.

When their guests had departed, Kemp offered to remove the coat, but Sir Richard dismissed her with a smile and words of thanks. As the door closed behind her, he took his wife in his arms. “A cosier armful indeed!” he murmured against the soft fur of her hat. 

She looked up at him enquiringly. “When it was proposed I marry Melissa, George said I should seek a cosier armful,” he explained. “Who could deny that I have done so most triumphantly?”

She whispered, laughter bubbling in her voice, “Where shall your cosy armful wear this extraordinary garment, though? It is surely far too grand and exotic for church of a Sunday in Queen Charlton!”

“I confess,” he said with a wicked glint in his eye, “that church is not the first thing that crosses my mind when I behold you thus. You look like nothing so much as a delicious bundle that is entirely mine to unwrap. All my birthdays come at once. You shall wear it at my pleasure - and yours too, I trust, my love - during the long, cold winter nights ahead of us.”

“And what shall I wear underneath it, Richard?”

“Did you not hear of my forethought in ordering the softest, most luxurious lining? Why, under it, nothing at all!”


	28. She Was Planning Some Mischief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sir Richard and Pen have decided to break their journey to Somerset at an inn. I expect you can imagine... You can easily skip this chapter if you're not here for That Sort of Thing.

The stout landlord closed the door of his best private parlour behind him, and breathed a sigh of relief. It pained him to admit that his life’s companion had been right, surely one of her more irritating attributes. His inn, though not large, was on the Bristol road and therefore he was used occasionally to catering to the Quality, but even so he had been intimidated by the fashionable gentleman who had bespoken his best parlour and finest bedchamber for the night for himself and his young wife. He was so very tall and elegant, and his driving coat had such a number of capes. Even his coachmen were intimidatingly haughty. But his helpmeet had taken one look at the couple and divined by some occult feminine power that they were newly-weds. “Don’t you worry, Tom, all those two want after a day’s drive is a decent dinner – which I hope you know you can trust me to provide – and a room with a good big bed in it!” She had cackled in a most vulgar fashion, and he had been slightly shocked, but here they were, finishing up their plain country dinner with every appearance of satisfaction, holding hands under the table when they thought themselves unobserved, and smelling of April and May to even the dullest understanding.

Inside the parlour, Sir Richard leaned back in his sturdy carver chair and smiled at his bride. “It is quite delightfully like old times, Pen, to be staying in an inn with you!”

She dimpled up at him, her large, expressive eyes sparkling in the candlelight, her golden curls glowing. “It is indeed. Hence this rather unnecessary stop.”

"Travelling in your company must always be enjoyable, and I feel that a night in an inn with you is...entirely necessary. And tomorrow I will see your home at last.”

She chuckled, but allowed herself to be diverted by talk of their destination. “I hope you will like it, Richard. Of course I am partial, but truly I think it is a lovely house, in a perfect setting. The rooms in the newer wings of the house are large and fine, while the ones in the Tudor part are full of the most romantic character. The bedchamber and the bed my father used were the ones Queen Catherine is said to have slept in when she visited.”

“Without her distinguished husband, I collect?”

“I believe so, or surely we should have heard of it. But when I wrote to her I directed Mrs Slade to make up my mother’s chamber for us, as it has a quantity of large windows, and delightful views across the valley. I hope you shall enjoy being there, Richard.”

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “As long as I am with you. You have made me the happiest man in England, my love, do you know?”

Her face was suddenly full of devilry as she declared, “And I will make you happier yet!” She rose to her feet and said, “I am going to retire now, Richard. I will call the abigail to help me undress, and I will see you in half an hour, sir.” She dropped him a saucy curtsy, and whisked out of the room.

Sir Richard poured himself another glass of Madeira, and stretched his long legs out in front of him. During their marriage so far, Pen had most often shown herself perfectly willing to forgo the services of her maid when undressing, and accept his instead. Clearly she was planning some mischief, and he had a shrewd idea what it was; if he was correct in his surmise, it would be well worth half an hour’s wait.

Precisely thirty minutes later, the Corinthian made his way up the creaking, wainscoted stairs to the old inn’s largest bedroom. He tapped upon the panelled door, and said softly, “Pen?”

She must have been standing by the door, for it opened immediately, without the occupant of the room being visible, and two urgent hands reached out and pulled him inside. The door was closed, and locked, and she stood with her back to it.

The person who confronted Sir Richard in the shadowy chamber, however, was not his elegant young bride, expectant mother of his child, the toast of fashionable Brighton and envy of the polite world. It was instead a youth with golden curls, a mere stripling, dressed in a neckcloth - most indifferently tied - coat, shirt and very tight breeches. He stood looking up at Sir Richard, a small smile hovering on his finely sculpted lips. The lower lip, in particular, was full and sensual, and made for kissing, surely. “Sir?”

Sir Richard stepped into the room, and shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat, tossing them aside carelessly. “Come here!” he commanded, his eyes glittering under their heavy lids.

The youth came to stand close by the Corinthian, placing slim hands on his broad chest and looking up into his face. “What is your pleasure, Richard?” he asked.

Sir Richard had spent several lonely, frustrating nights in chambers very much like this, tossing in tangled sheets, considering exactly what his pleasure was. He gripped the youth by the lapels and pulled him close, ripping the neckcloth from his throat as he had done once before, and flinging it aside. He then ruthlessly stripped coat and waistcoat from him in a single swift movement. He paused for a moment, savouring the vision before him: a thin shirt, which offered tantalising glimpses of rounded breasts and taut rosebud nipples. He reached out with one hand and bunched the shirt tight at Pen’s back, straining the fabric over her chest, rendering it almost transparent. 

With a muttered exclamation he dragged the shirt over her head. “Now my shirt!” he directed, and she obeyed him. They stood together in their breeches, breathing hard, bare chest to bare chest, her erect nipples just brushing his hot skin.

“And now,” the Corinthian said, “you must take off my boots, brat!”

He sank into the armchair that sat by the empty fireplace, and Pen fell to her knees before him. He handed her his handkerchief – he was not as yet so far gone that he wanted thumbprints on his top boots – and she grasped the supple leather, and tugged. The boots were tight, the leather slippery, and it took her a little while of pulling and easing, skin flushing pink, breasts bouncing as she strained in laughing effort, before she managed to remove them both and set them aside. She sat back on her heels between his long legs and grinned up at him, slightly breathless, entirely irresistible. “Does Biddle do so well?” she asked innocently, her eyes sparkling.

“He does not!”

“And does he do this?”

She scooted forward a little and began to unbutton the fall of his buckskins.

“Stop talking about my valet! He most definitely does not!”

She lowered her head. “Is this what you imagined?” she whispered against him, her soft breath teasing the sensitive satin skin.

“It is exactly what I imagined!”

“Good!” she said, and took him in her mouth. 

He was so tempted to abandon himself to the silky feel of her encircling him and the sight of her half-naked in her breeches between his thighs, but he had had other fantasies to play out before the night was over.

“Stop, Pen!” he groaned after a little while. He wound his fingers in her hair and, reluctantly, stilled her movement. Slowly, teasingly, she released him. “Get up!” he said huskily. They rose together, bodies touching still, and he wiped his thumb across her delicious wet mouth. “Now…” he said, “unbutton yourself!”

Her hands on her breeches buttons, she smiled up at him. “You said once that you intended to toss me on the bed and kiss every inch of me,” she murmured.

“And so I do, brat!” 


	29. Home

After a later start than planned, and a hearty breakfast, the pair continued their journey into Somerset, towards Queen Charlton. It was a landscape of lush hills and deep valleys, quiet, very English, not spectacular in any way, and Sir Richard knew from the brief time he had spent here in June how much Pen had pined for it, almost as much as for her dead father and her lost childhood, when she had so cruelly been torn away by the Griffins five years ago. He wondered suddenly why the Griffins had not chosen to reside here with their ward, as they could so easily have done, charging all the expenses of the household to her estate while living in the greatest possible comfort as her guardians. He asked her, for it puzzled him.

"My aunt says that she dislikes the country," she replied. "But I think the real reason is her history here in Somerset. Her mother - my grandmother - ran off with the curate of St Margaret's while she was still supposedly in mourning for her husband. My father was just a boy, and he was left to HIS grandmother's care. Lady Luttrell has told me that it was a great scandal in the area at the time - the abandonment, as well as the elopement - and is still talked of now. She says my aunt is still known as That Woman's Daughter. Do you recall how - luckily for us - she would not on any account spend the night at the inn here when she was looking for me? Aunt Almeria would not at all enjoy being the subject of such gossip."

"Much as I dislike your aunt," he murmured, "the circumstances of her parents' marriage can hardly be said to be her fault. And the gossip must be fifty years old now."

She shrugged. "You have met my aunt, Richard. I am sure that you can perceive how excessively she would dislike being seen as anything but entirely respectable. Imagine her attending church here, knowing people were whispering about her in the pews behind..."

"I can see that that would be so," he conceded.

Pen added a little bleakly, "And she has put the idea of the house to good use in the last year or so, by holding the prospect of my living here over me as a bribe. If I had agreed to marry Fred, she told me, I could have come here with him as my husband directly after the ceremony. It was entirely up to me!"

Sir Richard had not suspected this nasty little detail, and was horrified anew. "She truly is a monster! But you are free of her now, my darling! Try to put her from your mind - I am sorry I asked. I would not for all the world have cast a shadow over your homecoming." She smiled, and brushed it aside, telling him that her present happiness could not be marred by such a trivial thing, and he exerted himself to divert her attention to more pleasant topics.

Pen had given the coachman Peter directions from Queen Charlton, and they were very close now. She had fallen silent as they drew nearer, and as he sat beside her the Corinthian could feel the tension in her body.

They were driving along on the crest of a ridge, with a high wall of golden stone running along beside the road, and a thick stand of trees in full leaf blocking the view of what lay beyond. At length they came to a small gatehouse in the Tudor style, with tall, twisting chimneypots. A fine gate of wrought iron with an intricate tracery barred their way. They had been expected, though, and the gates swung open in front of the carriage, a young woman in a mobbed cap curtsying and beaming at them, while two small children jumped excitedly at her side. Pen greeted her by name, introduced her to Sir Richard, and was made acquainted with the children. After a moment the carriage rolled on between the trees, and shortly emerged onto an open landscape, which dropped away from them into a broad valley, then rose again more steeply on the far side to a wooded hill.

Pen drew Sir Richard to the carriage window for a better view, grasping his hand with fierce excitement. He saw that the valley below was on this side covered with a patchwork of fields and farm cottages sloping down towards a small river. The other side was wilder, steeper, and for the most part uncultivated, and an impressive herd of red deer could be seen grazing far to their right on the rough ground below the tree cover. There was a kind of platform on the left, however, where the ground was flatter for a space; it had been landscaped into gardens, and among them nestled a substantial house, its many leaded casements reflecting the morning sun. The central portion was a lovely jewel of a Tudor building, with a myriad tall chimneys, no two the same. It was flanked on each side by a wing in a more modern style, with tall, gracious windows. It was a lovely, tranquil scene, with the air of a world apart, a little kingdom.

Pen looked up at him, quite unconscious of the tears rolling down her cheeks, and he took her gently in his arms, and kissed her with great tenderness, and said, “My love, we are home at last!”


	30. I Have Missed It So

Sir Richard Wyndham, despite the new sobriety of his mode of life, and the moderate hours he had been keeping of late, was still no lover of dawn rising, and he awoke at what he instinctively felt to be an unconscionably early hour on his first day at Queen's Manor. He reached out a lazy arm to draw his wife to his side, but he encountered nothing but an empty space and cold linen, and so he was forced to open his eyes. 

He discovered that Pen, wearing only her dressing gown, was sitting by the window on this first morning in her old home, gazing out across the valley below. He slipped from between the warm sheets on his side of the bed and padded naked across the room, dragging off a coverlet from the old four-poster and wrapping it about them both as he seated himself beside her. It was early autumn now and the weather was still fine for the most part, but a chill in the morning air betokened the change of seasons. 

She smiled her thanks at him, and leaned back against his broad shoulder, returning her eyes to the landscape beneath the window. It was a pastoral idyll: diaphanous wisps of mist curled from the dewy grass and gathered in the hollows by the stream, and the sky was pink with dawn. Ribbons of smoke rose twisting from the chimneys of the scattered cottages opposite. The silence was only broken by the distant bark of a stag. There was nothing modern in the scene; nothing that could not have greeted the gaze of Pen’s ancestor, who had been granted the house and land by Henry VIII’s last queen, 250 years ago.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said softly, “and I have missed it terribly these past five years.”

He tightened his embrace and brushed his lips across her golden curls, saying sympathetically, “I know how you have longed to be here, my love, and what deep emotion it must stir in you, now that you are back.”

She sighed, thankful as ever for his quick understanding. “I had not considered how it would affect me, I think, Richard. I was whisked away from here so quickly by my aunt that I scarcely had time to apprehend that my father had died, and that I would never see him again. Every room and every view reminds me of him, and it is as if my grief comes back fresh and I am twelve years old again. And yet I am not a child any more; I am changed. I am very happy to be here with you, and all the happier to know that you and he would have found a great deal to say to each other, and become excellent friends, I think. I hardly know whether to weep or to laugh, I am so overset.”

“Do both, my dearest, as you feel you must,” he murmured. “There is no-one here but me to see.”

She gave a slightly shaky laugh. “I am glad of it, for if anyone were to witness me in distress I am sure they must think that I have run mad, or am unhappy in our marriage, or that you ill-treat me, and nothing could be further from the truth. I have never known such joy, but when I become conscious of it I wish that my parents could have lived to meet you, and known of my happiness, and then I feel sad again. The fact that I am expecting our child makes it worse somehow, for I cannot share the news with them. I am quite ridiculous.”

“Oh, never say that,” he said seriously. “Perhaps they do know of it, Pen, now that you are here, of all places. It would be a great consolation to think so. I have never been a religious man, but I am so very thankful that I have found you, beyond all hope or expectation, that I could almost believe in providence, or some benevolent deity. Who can say, truly?”

“Indeed I am sure they would watch over me, if they could.”

Pen turned to look back into the room, at the portrait that hung over the elegant fireplace. It was a very well-conceived, skilled piece, set in a garden, and showed a lady in the simple Grecian fashions of some fifteen years previously: Elodie Creed. She looked the picture of a young English matron, but of course she was not, or not entirely that; she was also an orphan, a refugee, an aristocratic Frenchwoman who had already seen and experienced terrible things in her short life. It was hard to tell if this knowledge could be seen in her eyes, or if the viewer imposed it. She appeared to be in her late twenties, and had a beautiful head of long, shining golden-brown hair, informally dressed, softly curling, and a pair of fine, expressive blue-green eyes. In her lap stood a golden-haired, wild-ringleted child in short petticoats, too young for the observer to be sure of his or her sex. The child grasped the mother’s hands tightly, but stared out boldly at the world with a wide, curious dark-blue gaze that was very familiar to Sir Richard. The sitters both seemed full of vitality, and the poignancy of it brought a lump to Sir Richard’s throat. 

He said somewhat huskily, “You have such a look of her, my love. She was a beautiful woman. It’s a work of great accomplishment – Lawrence, of course. How odd to think that we both sat for him, at around the same time.”

“I don't think that what I did could be described as sitting! I have no recollection of it being taken, but my father was used to tell me that they had the most terrible trouble making me keep still for two minutes together, so that Mr Lawrence could paint me. I was the most troublesome child.”

“I cannot believe it to be so,” said Sir Richard gravely. 

She chuckled, and leaned back against him once more, and they were silent for a while, as together they watched the sun rise higher, the sky turn to a perfect shade of blue, and the shreds of mist grow thinner, and melt away. 

“What shall we do today?” he said at last. The previous day Pen had shown him all over the rambling house, and pointed out the portraits of her ancestors, and the snug panelled bedchamber that had been hers as a child, but he had as yet not explored the estate with her, nor met its people beyond the household staff.

“We should ride out this morning, so that I can show you everything, and introduce you to our tenants. I am sure they too will have a great many stories to tell you of my wildness as a child, and the scrapes I used to get into. And we must first of all visit my parents’ graves, in the family plot down by the river. I was there briefly in June, but I have had little other opportunity to see them since my father died and my aunt bustled me away to London with scarcely a moment to say goodbye.”

“Of course, Pen. I will be at your side.”

She smiled at him through her tears. “I know you will, my love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fell down a bit of a rabbit-hole of Lawrence portraits; there's one, Lady Orde and Her Daughter Anne, which shows pretty much this pose of mother and child. But the one that obsesses me is Portrait of a Lady from the Denver Art Museum. Wow. That's how I picture Elodie (I made the name up, obviously - she's hardly mentioned in The Corinthian). Imagine Heyer covers with some of Lawrence's beautiful portraits of heroes and heroines... Obviously Richard is going to commission him to paint Pen again.


	31. It Was He!

The autumn sun streamed in through the fine, tall windows of the courtroom and added to the unpleasant stuffiness of the overcrowded chamber. The assizes were in full session. A murder case was always a draw, but this one promised added sensation, as the victim had been a member of the Quality, brutally struck down in the flower of young manhood. It was to be hoped that persons of wealth and refinement might be called upon to testify, and the public benches were crammed with eager observers of all degrees as a result. Special transportation had been laid on from nearby towns and villages so that interested parties could, at a modest cost, attend the trial and, should they care to do so, also take in the many sights of the fine old city of Wells. Most, it seemed, were here for the spectacle rather than the medieval cathedral.

By some mysterious process, the spectators had become aware that the victim’s noble mother and her surviving children were present to see justice take its course, and a murmur of sympathy arose from the crowd as they beheld a most affecting sight: the entrance of four fashionable young women, in deepest mourning and heavily veiled, attending on an older lady in a state of near collapse, and supported by a handsome, rather rakish young man in full regimentals. “This is something like!” remarked a stout lady in a puce gown and a beehive bonnet, as she settled in with her small, desiccated and almost speechless bosom friend for a day of wholesome entertainment, all gratis.

After the judge, an elderly gentleman of wizened, malignant aspect, who looked as though he had slept badly and breakfasted worse, was seated, and the legal preliminaries undergone, the first witness in the case against Horace Trimble was summoned, and to the profound satisfaction of the assembled populace it turned out to be one of the bereaved young ladies, called upon to testify about the shocking highway robbery that she had endured a few months earlier. Her mother had also been present on that unhappy occasion, of course, but as anyone could observe that lady was in no fit state to stand before a court. 

The Honourable Sophia Brandon, a sweet-faced young lady of perhaps twenty years, gave her evidence in a soft and quavering voice, but it was dramatic enough to satisfy the most exacting taste. The journey towards Bath in the private conveyance – the sudden lurching halt – the gunshot – the screams - the carriage door wrenched open – the hulking masked man – the pistol brandished in their tear-stained faces – the diamond necklace – gone! 

The eager young legal gentleman who acted for the prosecution asked the lady if she was able to identify her assailant, and she seemed to shrink away as she regarded the bulky, sneering figure of Trimble in the dock. It was no matter for wonder that she was distressed at the mere sight of him, as he might have been chosen by a theatre manager to play the part of a dangerous, violent criminal, and the months he had spent in the town gaol had done nothing to improve his sinister appearance.

“His face was covered,” Miss Brandon faltered bravely, “but it was certainly a man of his build, and stature. I am afraid I cannot…cannot say with absolute security that it was indeed him, but it was someone very much like him.”

The prisoner bared his teeth at her in a hideous smirk, and the young lady was so affected that she had to be helped out of the witness box, and back to the bosom of her relations.

The next witness to be called was Sir Richard Wyndham, and a murmur of interest ran through the crowd. The stout lady nudged her company sharply in the ribs as the tall, handsome gentleman made his way into the witness box to be sworn. He had chosen a sober dark coat and plain waistcoat for this solemn occasion, but their cut and quality proclaimed his status as a leader of fashion, as did the intricacy of his neck-cloth and the stylish cut of his honey-brown hair. He seemed perfectly at ease in the box, and gave his evidence coolly, but with precision, in a firm and well-modulated voice.

He told the court when questioned that he had been travelling into the West Country on family affairs, when an accident to his carriage caused him to put up at a small inn near Wroxham. A fellow guest there was a man who seemed to Sir Richard, “though my experience of such things is severely limited”, to be a person of dubious honesty, a fact confirmed when the man had attempted to steal Sir Richard’s valuable snuff box and gold quizzing glass. A murmur greeted this significant revelation, and Sir Richard raised the very glass in question slightly, as if in confirmation. 

Sir Richard then went on to explain that a Bow Street Runner had arrived at the inn on the following morning, but that his fellow guest did not seem to be alarmed. This fact was perhaps explained, he went on to intimate, by the fact that, on reaching his destination later that day, Sir Richard himself had discovered in his pocket a heavy purse, which he had certainly not placed there and had never seen before, and which contained the famous Brandon diamond necklace.

This revelation caused a sensation in the courtroom and it was some while before the officials could restore order. “You recognised the necklace?” the legal gentleman asked. 

“I did; it is a very notable heirloom and I had seen it often in Lady Saar’s possession. I assumed that the individual I encountered had placed it there to evade the suspicion of the Runner, who was, I supposed, in pursuit of him. I imagined he in turn might come after me, to retrieve his booty. That was not my main concern, however. Although I had not previously had the slightest notion that the necklace had been stolen, I realised that I must endeavour to restore it to Lady Saar as quickly as possible, as I apprehended that she would be greatly and understandably distressed.”

Most of the spectators, including the jury of respectable Somerset merchants, were watching these interesting revelations of high society with bated breath, and mouths slightly open, although Sir Richard was uncomfortably aware of the presence of the Brandon family, and the painfully intense nature of their regard. He remained as cool as ever, to all appearances, but he was all too conscious of the fact that while he might be argued to be telling the truth, more or less, he was certainly not telling the whole truth, nor anything approaching it. To add to his discomfort, the prisoner was glaring at him fixedly, aware as he at least must be of the many omissions in Sir Richard’s narrative. The Corinthian was well known among his acquaintance for his cool head and quick wits, but what amounted in effect to prevaricating brazenly under oath in a court of law was a new experience for him, and not one he found he relished.

Nevertheless he went on, “I recalled that Lady Saar’s younger son, Beverley Brandon, was staying in the neighbourhood, and I was able to call on him straight away, and to place the necklace in his safe keeping. He was greatly shocked, and resolved, of course, to journey to Bath without delay and to restore the jewels to his mother, who was staying there.”

“I must ask you, Sir Richard, if the individual who, we must suppose, placed the necklace in your pocket is present in this courtroom?”

Not if he has an ounce of sense, thought Sir Richard wryly, but he said nothing, merely scanning the assembled persons with his now famous quizzing glass. Those individuals of a particularly tender conscience sank down in their seats, irrationally afraid that they might be identified as the thief and summarily hauled into the dock to stand trial, but Sir Richard’s glass moved inexorably on, and came to rest at last on the accused. “No,” he said firmly, and the nervous persons breathed deep sighs of relief, and loosened their neckwear.

“But you have seen the prisoner in the dock before?”

“I have. He was staying at the inn where I made my surprising discovery. By chance I happened to mention the subject of waistcoats, for I was haunted by the revolting catskin garment that my companion at the inn near Wroxham had sported. Mr – ah - Trimble seemed most fascinated by this repulsive item, and left the inn – as it seemed to me, in search of the other fellow.”

“What was the name of the person in question?” asked the lawyer.

“I believe he called himself Jimmy Yarde,” replied Sir Richard coolly.

Upon hearing this, the prisoner recoiled involuntarily, flushed deep red, and was seen to clench his fists in a fury, and mutter violently to himself. The spectators nudged each other, and whispered, and once again the room was in uproar. Sir Richard was glad to be dismissed, and take his seat in the body of the room once more, and only the exercise of the strongest self-control prevented him from wiping his heated brow. Now we come to the matter of it, he thought. He deeply pitied Lady Saar and her children, and hoped that she and they would be able to endure what was to come.

The next witness called was Mrs Luttrell, and the members of the fairer sex in the court sighed in sympathy as a very young, very nervous lady took the stand, and sat there twisting her handkerchief convulsively between her gloved hands, her large, pansy-like brown eyes full of apprehension. Under question, she revealed that she had left her father’s house on a moonlit night in secret, to meet her betrothed in a small spinney on his estate. “The gentleman who is now my husband,” she clarified.

“Romance in ‘igh life!” gloated the stout lady ecstatically, once more prodding her timid friend in the side. That lady gave a sort of squeak, which her friend presumed to be an expression of great enjoyment and approval.

“And did you meet your, er, fiancé?” the lawyer asked.

“No!” the young lady breathed. “I saw another man – a young gentleman, very fashionably dressed and unknown to me - in the place where we had appointed to meet. And so I hid, and I was very glad that I had done so, for all at once another man appeared, a big man, and spoke to the smaller man most angrily, and then suddenly he struck him, and knocked him down! And then he bent and took something from his pocket, and left, passing right by where I was hidden, and I was so terrified that I ran in fear for my life, and then I swooned dead away, and fell down, insensible!”

All the previous sensations that had swept the courtroom were as nothing to this, and it was a long while until the lawyer was able to address his final question to the young lady. “And do you see that man – the man who knocked the gentleman down – in this courtroom today?” 

“Yes!” Mrs Luttrell faltered. She raised a small hand and pointed waveringly at the prisoner. “It was he!”


	32. Sentence of Doom

The final witness was bound to be an anti-climax after this, but the magistrate, Mr Phillips, took the stand in a stolid fashion and confirmed that he and the village constable had been called to attend a dead body in the grounds of Crome Hall, and had found it, with its neck broken; the lawyer did not ask him who had contacted the authorities, and he did not volunteer this information, to Sir Richard’s profound relief. This decent man clearly gave his evidence somewhat reluctantly, as he seemed all too aware of the presence of the victim’s family, and the further distress that the revelation about the nature of their loved one’s death must cause them, but soon enough it was done, and the case was concluded. The prisoner had pleaded guilty, had engaged no legal representative, indeed had rejected those that were offered him, and had made no attempt to question the witnesses brought against him. It was hard indeed to see what verdict could be returned but that of guilty, and what sentence but that of execution.

The jury shuffled out to consider their verdict, the court subsided into excited conversation, and Sir Richard found himself facing the sharp-eyed scrutiny of Mr Phillips, who happened now to be seated near him in the crowded room. “Mr Phillips, I hope I see you in good health,” he greeted him cordially. “I am glad to encounter you, for I have a matter I wish to discuss with you.”

Mr Philips raised a grizzled eyebrow at this, and allowed himself to be drawn slightly apart. “I see that your rascally young nephew has not been called to testify,” he said rather brusquely.

“No, and I am glad of it – firstly because he could have nothing to add, and secondly because he is in fact…a fictional character.”

Mr Phillips regarded Sir Richard fixedly, but said nothing, appearing to wait for further elucidation of this extraordinary statement. Sir Richard obliged. “I know you were highly suspicious of our activities, and those of young Luttrell and his betrothed, and you were correct to be so, though not for the reasons you supposed. In fact my ‘nephew’ was a young lady in disguise, a Miss Penelope Creed – ah, I see you recognise the name – who was running away from her aunt’s house after being ill-treated there, and intended to seek sanctuary with Lady Luttrell, her godmother.”

“And what was your part in this disgraceful business, sir?” Mr Phillips enquired stiffly, his colour heightened.

“I encountered her, alone and unprotected, in the middle of the night on the streets of London in her masculine disguise, and, when I could not dissuade her from her reckless flight, I resolved to accompany her to ensure that she was safe.” Sir Richard’s face was impassive, but his voice was not, quite. “On my honour, sir, I had no other motive than concern for her safety. You may have reason to think me a frippery fellow, but I promise you I am no molester of innocent youth. When we arrived in Queen Charlton, I was unable at once to leave Miss Creed in Lady Luttrell’s care, as I knew I must, because of the presence of Beverley Brandon. And most of the rest of the sorry tale you know. As soon as I was able to seek Lady Luttrell’s aid, I did so.”

Sir Richard was speaking with extreme seriousness, and Mr Phillips found, somewhat to his surprise, that he was inclined to believe him. He huffed in exasperation, “And so I suppose your young lady in disguise colluded with Luttrell and his girl to pull the wool over her father’s eyes, and mine, and arrange their quite shocking elopement!”

“She did, although I fear you will not credit the fact that I bore no part in their foolish Gretna scheme, and was ignorant of it until afterwards.”

Mr Phillips made no answer to this. “And now I hear that you are married to the young lady in question, and her a substantial heiress,” he said dispassionately, as one stating incontrovertible facts.

“Both those things are true, sir, but I assure you I had no idea of her wealth when I asked her for her hand, and it is in any case a matter of complete indifference to me. I married her for love.” Sir Richard spoke calmly and civilly, but Mr Phillips could see by the set of his mouth that he was annoyed by the implication, and keeping his irritation in check, and he liked him the better for it.

“Then you are fortunate indeed,” said Mr Phillips, “and I suppose I must wish you happy, sir, and offer you my hand.”

Sir Richard smiled suddenly, and shook the magistrate’s hand. “Thank you, sir. I am glad that I have been able to relieve your mind of the suspicions I know you have been harbouring. And now that you know our secret, I am persuaded that I am able to rely on your discretion in this matter. After all, we shall be neighbours. You must come to tea at Queen’s Manor with Mrs Phillips, and meet my wife in the conventional fashion.”

Mr Phillips laughed, and promised that they would do so, out of curiosity if nothing else. “I remember Miss Penelope as a child, for I was of course well acquainted with the late Mr Creed. He was a real character, and I recall him saying that she was a fair handful and for ever getting into scrapes, so I perceive she has not changed so very much.”

Sir Richard was becoming accustomed to hearing tales of Pen’s childhood exploits, and so grinned rather ruefully, and agreed that she had not.

The magistrate glanced at Sir Richard as if a sudden thought had struck him, and once again his eyes were bright and shrewd. “It occurs to me that no-one here has thought to ask what exactly young Mr Brandon was doing in that spinney late at night, while the rest of you were playing out your midsummer night’s dream.”

Sir Richard regarded him with a certain wary respect. “To be plain with you, sir, and in strictest confidence, of course, Brandon had perceived that my so-called cousin was a girl in disguise, had naturally placed the worst possible construction on the fact, and had hit upon the notion of blackmailing me. He was not…” His mouth twisted into a rather wry smile. “..a particularly pleasant person, upon close acquaintance.”

His companion appeared deep in thought. “Blackmail! What a shocking young villain he must have been. And as such, he was perhaps more deeply involved in this theft than we have heard? Oh, I see by your face that I have it right! All this coincidence that has troubled my mind was nothing of the sort, and Trimble’s attack on him was not, in truth, an assault on a stranger, but that of one accomplice upon another, who believed himself to have been hoodwinked.”

The Corinthian did not answer him directly, but said, “Well, Trimble did kill him, you know, and the truth cannot exonerate him. It would do nothing but bring terrible pain and disgrace to Brandon’s family, who are entirely guiltless, and have surely suffered enough.”

“All this may very well be true, but why should a man like Trimble care a jot for it? One might instead have imagined that he would speak out about all this, yell it at the top of his lungs, in fact, to spread the blame, and to seek to make some pitiful defence for himself, and yet he made no mention of it, not so much as a word,” said the magistrate in a conversational tone.

“Ah, one might think so,” said Sir Richard. “But with eyewitness evidence of his crime he was surely bound to hang in any case. And it turns out that even such a brute as he is not quite devoid of all shreds of human feeling. There is a young woman who is bearing his child, and who will be quite destitute without the support of his, er, criminal activities. She has been found, and her future and that of her child has been made secure. Proof of this has been shown to Trimble, and he has kept silent accordingly, though of course he was not entirely able to control his lamentable temper. And so it has been arranged. While you may have some qualms, sir, I am sure you will agree that this act of charity was meritorious in itself, preserving a young woman and an innocent child from destitution, and really, considering the irreparable damage that would otherwise have been done to the Brandon name, quite remarkably cheap.”

“Your doing, Sir Richard, I collect?” Sir Richard merely bowed slightly, and said nothing. “As an officer of the King’s Peace, I deplore this underhand behaviour, sir, but as a husband and a father, I look at that poor unfortunate family in their great distress and I can only congratulate you on your actions, unorthodox though they well may be.”

Sir Richard raised a languid hand. “Acquit me of any extraordinary benevolence, Mr Phillips. You must surely perceive that it is in my own interest, which is identical with that of my wife, that this matter should be concluded with all possible dispatch, and put to rest for ever. Entirely apart from any other considerations, I am heartily sick of the interior of Wells Gaol, and of the company of its tiresome denizens, and will be very happy never to set eyes on any them again, unless my life takes quite an unexpected turn. I shall abandon my experiment in philanthropy, I assure you, and return to my previous existence of complete selfishness.”

Mr Phillips snorted. “Selfishness, you say? Oh no, sir, I have your measure now, and will not be deceived again. Even at my time of life I can con a new lesson, I hope, and I am learning at this late date not to judge people by appearances.”

Sir Richard once again smiled, and said nothing, and the gentleman moved back to their seats. At that moment a great bustle announced the arrival of the court official, with the announcement that the jury had reached their verdict.

The large room was silent, but the crowd released a great sigh, as if they were one organism, when the jury foreman pronounced his verdict of guilty, and again when the aged judge put on his black cap and proclaimed the chilling sentence of doom.

The prisoner seemed dazed now, and put up no resistance as he was taken from the dock, but Mr Phillips, with his new knowledge, thought that his eyes sought out Sir Richard’s, as if seeking some desperate reassurance, and that some brief, silent message passed between them.

The press of people streaming from the court was very great, and although Sir Richard felt himself obliged to have some conversation with young Mr and Mrs Luttrell, with whom he had as yet had no chance to speak, they were swept from him by the crowd, and he found himself instead close by his friend Lieutenant the Honourable Cedric Brandon. That gentleman wrung his hand in greeting and exclaimed, an expression of profound relief on his aristocratic countenance, “Thank God that’s over, Ricky, and came out all right and tight at last, thanks to you!”

Sir Richard said, “There is no need to speak of that. I am happy to be of assistance. But I was a little surprised not to see your father here to escort your mother. I hope he is not unwell, Ceddie?”

“No, we’ve given out that that’s the matter, but the truth of it is…” The lieutenant looked about him anxiously and then mouthed the single word, “Brandy!”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“I know, dear old boy, it’s bad, very bad, but what’s to be done? It’s a relief to be out of his company, to tell you the truth. He does nothing but curse and throw things; it drives poor Mama almost out of her senses, and the girls can’t stand it either. Can’t say I care for it much myself. I say, Ricky, would you help me escort m’mother and m’sisters back to the inn, so we can see the back of this cursed place? This damned crowd is the outside of enough.”

Sir Richard was quite unable to refuse such a request, and soon found himself with a lady on each arm: Miss Sophia, who accepted his escort with gratitude, and by some malign fate her older sister Melissa, who laid her black-gloved hand on his sleeve in silence, and with every appearance of the greatest reluctance. As their last meeting had been a most awkward interview at which they had discussed the possibility of their impending marriage, and as they had not encountered each other since that memorable day, Sir Richard – now married to quite another lady - could hardly wonder at it, and could only hope that their destination would prove to be close by.


	33. It Is So Very Awkward

Miss Sophia was clearly aware of the extreme difficulty of the situation, and did her best to skate over it by rushing into speech in a flurry of thanks to Sir Richard for his kind escort. He brushed this aside as nothing, and she hurried on to say, “I am very conscious, sir, that we owe you a much greater debt of gratitude: one that can never be repaid. My mother is…not aware of it, as we all felt that it could only serve to make her agony all the worse, but Cedric has made sure that we are fully sensible of all that you have done for us, and we are most profoundly thankful to you.”

Here the elder Miss Brandon gave what could only be described as a snort of derision, but her sister ignored it, and went on, “Indeed I think that we have long been aware that our poor brother was not…not of a strong moral constitution, but we could never have dreamed that he would do such a shocking, criminal thing to our dear mother, and to the whole family. And we are all – ALL of us – fully alive to the fact that if it were not for your actions, Sir Richard, we would now be plunged into the most dreadful scandal and disgrace, the family of a…of a common thief! Let us be plain with each other – if Beverley were not dead, Sir Richard, this might be HIS trial! For holding up and robbing his own mother!”

In the face of her emotion, Sir Richard was left with very little to say. He murmured some platitude, he hardly knew what, of his long friendship with Cedric and his happiness to be of service.

He was compelled to stop then, as Melissa to his great surprise gripped his arm fiercely and halted, turning to look him full in the face as she put back her heavy veil. “Sir Richard,” she said with resolution, “my sister implicitly upbraids me for lack of civility, and I must own with pain that she is right. Whatever else may have passed between us, and whatever my feelings may be on the propriety of your behaviour in other matters, I must agree that we will for ever as a family be under the greatest obligation to you, for you have preserved our honour and our reputation, which is of all things most precious to us! Let us never speak of it again!” On this her voice broke a little, and she turned on her heel and strode away to re-join her mother and her other siblings, leaving Sir Richard and Sophia standing astonished in the narrow street, jostled by indifferent passers-by.

Sophia was clearly embarrassed by her sister’s behaviour, and Sir Richard could only pity her as she struggled with broken phrases to excuse it. “Come now, do not upset yourself!” he said, smiling down at her reassuringly. “You have had a most trying day, and you do not deserve this added distress. Indeed, there is no reason for it. You know as well as I do that Melissa has some cause to be angry with me. Let us be honest, as old friends should. It is true that I had no part in the marriage scheme drawn up by our parents, and I never did explicitly agree to it, but I could and should have nipped it in the bud, not allowed it to drag on for years in that ridiculous fashion. Melissa and I would have made each other dreadfully unhappy – and I might with advantage have said so openly a long time since.”

Sophia looked at him shyly, and said, “It is really only her pride that is hurt, for she has always had a great deal of it, you know. I don’t believe she ever cared a fig for you, but only for your wretched fortune and position, and I am sure you deserve more from a wife than that – any man does!” She gave a rather distracted, hectic laugh. ”Indeed, I am sorry for my incivility, for I should have congratulated you on your marriage before, only it is so very awkward that I did not quite know what to say in Melissa’s presence! I do indeed wish you very happy.”

Sir Richard said warmly, “The awkwardness is none of your making, that is certain! I am very happy, and I thank you for your good wishes, Sophia. I hope Melissa will come to understand that it is for the best – I must say no more, as it is impossible for me to discuss this topic without appearing to be the veriest cockscomb!”

He escorted his charge into the inn, and found Lady Saar in a private parlour, stretched out on a sofa almost insensible and being tended to by an abigail, and by her daughters. She was unaware of his presence, and it would surely be wrong to disturb her, so he could do nothing but shake Cedric by the hand, and take his leave. He had had some thought that he might tell his friend of his happy news, but this was not the time.

It was late in the afternoon when the Corinthian, driving his curricle and bays, and attended by the faithful Peter, arrived back at Queen Charlton. A weight seemed to drop from his shoulders as he passed by the gatehouse and down the long slope through the fields to the brook. He drove up to the manor and round into the stable yard, and entered the quiet old house though the archway that led to the Tudor hall, laying his beaver hat and whip down on the refectory table there, and tossing aside his many-caped driving coat. 

Pen came out to meet him, and he took her in his arms and held her for a long moment, saying nothing, but drinking in her presence.

She took his hand and drew him into her sitting-room. If she had learned anything over the months of her marriage, it was that that her husband’s habitually cool exterior hid a great deal of deep feeling, and she could see that he was profoundly affected by the events of the day. She had wanted to go with him to support him, but had been forced to admit that the risk of being recognised and exposed in the courtroom was too great. There would have been little point in spending the long hours waiting at an inn at Wells, and there had been the added danger of encountering the Brandon family and having to be introduced as Sir Richard’s bride; the thought filled her with hot embarrassment, and she certainly had no desire to add to their distress on such an occasion. So she had stayed at home, much against her natural inclination for action, and passed a weary and unprofitable time in pacing up and down, picking up books and newspapers and setting them down unread, and achieving very little.

Sir Richard threw himself onto to the blue brocade Knole sofa with a sigh, and pulled Pen down by his side. She placed her hand on his chest, looked anxiously into his face and said, “Was it very bad, Richard?”

He grimaced. “No, in truth, it went off as well as could be expected. Trimble stuck to his bargain, and has been taken off to the condemned cell, I must suppose, there to await his imminent execution.”

“Did the Brandons take any comfort from it?”

“I could not see that they did, though perhaps they will come to do so. But at least they are greatly relieved that it is over. Jimmy Yarde, wherever he is, will surely keep silent, if he values his own life. He cannot use his knowledge to extort money from the Brandons without putting his own neck in the noose, and so Beverley’s disreputable secret will die with Trimble.”

There was a slightly bitter note in his voice, and she said, “You pity him.”

“Trimble? Yes, I do. He was like a cornered animal, Pen. And I fear it is partly my fault. What has my thoughtless meddling achieved? If I had bestirred myself properly and returned the necklace to Lady Saar in person, despite the awkwardness of it, Beverley would still be alive, and Trimble would not face the gallows.”

“That’s nonsense, truly, Richard. Of course you returned it to Beverley, who was so close by; anyone would have done so in such a circumstance. And if Beverley had not tried to blackmail you over me, Trimble would never have discovered he had the necklace and he would still be alive now. You take too much on yourself. You cannot predict the future.”

“Trimble did not mean to kill him, you know, my love. He could have taken the cursed necklace from him by force and Beverley would have been powerless to recover it without implicating himself in the original theft. Trimble struck him down in a rage only because he thought he had been cheated.”

“Well, so he had,” said Pen reasonably. “You cannot have considered, Richard: as soon as he was caught, Trimble was bound to hang – for the theft of the necklace alone, even if he had not laid a finger on Mr Brandon. You know that poor wretches go to the gallows every week in London for stealing items of far lower value.”

”You’re right, of course,” he said with a slightly twisted smile. “What did I do to deserve so wise a wife?”

“You are a good person, Richard,” she said seriously. “I knew it from the first day I met you. You did everything for the best, and should not reproach yourself. At least now the Brandons are spared scandal and disgrace, and poor Trimble has the consolation of knowing that the girl he held dear, and his child, will have a life free from poverty and crime. You said it seemed to matter a great deal to him.”

“Yes,” he said, “he laughed it off with an oath, but I could see the fear for her in his eyes, and the relief when I showed him that she was safe. She wanted to visit him, you know, but he refused to let her see him in such a place. He seemed to care for little else, in the end.”

“That’s very sad,” Pen said. She hesitated for a moment, and then said with some small difficulty, “Did…did you speak to the Brandons, Richard, after it was over?”

A little wry amusement crept back into his eyes. “I did, my love. Lady Saar was in a state of collapse, but Cedric has made his father and the girls aware of the full truth of the matter. They know that a great scandal has been averted, and Sophia was most grateful. Even Melissa was forced to thank me, as best she could, which came as a great shock to me.”

“You talked with her, then?” She looked at him intently.

“Only briefly. She is still very much out of charity with me, and very proud, but I believe we have made our peace, as much as is possible. Indeed in some sense I cannot blame her for her anger.”

“I suppose you have known her for ever, so that she must be quite overset by the loss of you. I hear she is very beautiful,” said Pen a little wistfully. 

“I wonder what malicious person told you that? I admit she is, if ice maidens are to your taste. I know your soft heart, Pen, but do not pity her too much, for she only wanted to marry me for my fortune. For my part, I never wanted to marry her at all, and she knew it, and cared not a jot. I do not believe that a match based on such a foundation can ever succeed.”

“Her family were all counting on your money, and now they have lost it, as well as their son.”

“They were, and she most of all. I am sorry for it, but I have done everything in my power for them, in all conscience. I have averted a dreadful scandal that would have ruined their family name and surely prevented any of the girls from ever marrying respectably, and I have helped Cedric establish himself. I cannot be expected to regret that I have not also been made a sacrifice on the altar of the Brandon family honour!”

“I certainly hope you do not regret it!” said Pen teasingly. “And there is me to consider, too. I don’t even know them, apart from Cedric. I wouldn’t want to be a sacrifice to them, either!”

“And why should you?” he said, and took her in his arms.  



	34. Our Unfortunate Offspring

It was hardly surprising that the sensational murder trial at Wells should be the main topic of conversation in Somerset society, and even less surprising that some of the active participants in the drama should wish to discuss it with each other, particularly when they were privy to certain secret and interesting facts that others were not privileged to know. And so it was that, on the day after the verdict, Sir Richard and Lady Wyndham found themselves in receipt of a visit from their neighbours, Lady Luttrell, Mr Luttrell and his bride Lydia. Sir Jasper did not accompany them, being out all patience with their incessant and, in his view, distasteful chatter of the murder. It might well be that Sir Richard would have admitted to a great deal of sympathy with this point of view, if he had been aware of it, but he was none the less obliged to greet his guests with every appearance of pleasure, whatever his private feelings.

This was in fact the first morning call that the young Luttrells had paid to their new neighbours. During the weeks since Pen and Sir Richard had returned to Somerset, Piers and Lydia had been from home on a trip to see some relations of hers in Lyme Regis; they had only come home, with some reluctance, to attend the trial.

Piers had not set foot in Pen’s home in five years, and Lydia, a relative newcomer to the county, had never done so. Lydia’s father’s residence was by no means grand, and Crome Hall was quite a new house, by contrast with Queen’s Manor, so that Mrs Luttrell gazed in frank curiosity now at the Tudor great hall, with its dark panelling and minstrels’ gallery. She was possessed of a very lively imagination, well nourished by novels from the circulating library, and perhaps because of this she found the room Gothic, almost sinister in aspect, so that she was relieved to be ushered by the butler to a comfortable and sunny blue sitting-room in a more modern wing of the house.

The young Mrs Luttrell had never, in fact, set eyes on Lady Wyndham in women’s garb, but had only known her in the shocking guise of a boy. She had been incredulous when, on their long journey to Scotland, Piers had rather diffidently revealed the secret of Pen’s true identity and explained that they had grown up together. She had coloured hotly, mortified to recall that she had so recently asked - begged - what she had believed to be a boy to pretend to be in love with her. It had made her obscurely angry with Piers, though when he had asked her, bewildered, how the whole sorry episode could be said to be his fault, she had had no rational answer for him. They had not really quarrelled, and it had been set aside, but she had found herself ever since unable to envisage what Pen's appearance as a woman might be – somewhat freakish, she feared, or perhaps in truth hoped. She was almost disappointed to find her now to be a perfectly unexceptionable young lady, although she could not help but notice that her hair was still very short. Much as it pained her to admit it, her husband’s childhood friend was dressed in the height of fashion, and presented an undeniably agreeable aspect, although she was, out of question, Lydia thought, ridiculously and most unbecomingly tall, and displeasingly slender; Lydia herself was by contrast a short, plump young lady. It was, she supposed grudgingly, possible to see why Sir Richard had fallen in love with her, as he was himself rather too tall, and quite elderly, of course.

Blissfully unaware of these judgements upon them, the couple greeted their neighbours, and gave direction that refreshments be brought to the party outside, in the summerhouse that overlooked the valley.

In Piers' and Lydia's absence, Pen had had several opportunities to speak confidentially with Lady Luttrell, and they had agreed between them that the best way for everyone to go on in these rather awkward circumstances was for the two young ladies never to refer to their extraordinary, even scandalous previous acquaintance, but to meet as strangers, which in some sense they were. Perhaps they might speak more frankly later, if they came to know each other better; Pen had agreed cordially to this, although she privately doubted that it would ever come to pass. Lady Luttrell had promised to convey all this intelligence to Piers, and had been quite sanguine that he would obtain his bride's consent to the plan, since after all Lydia cut a slightly foolish figure in the story, and surely could not wish to pull caps in public with her husband's old playmate. Mrs Luttrell could, of course, pass some very scathing remarks about Pen's shocking previous conduct, if she chose, but then Pen could say the same of her, and Lydia, not three months returned from Gretna Green, could be said to be in the weaker position. There was no winning such a war without incurring terrible damage; if open hostilities were to take place, the battlefield would soon resemble the terrain of Portugal in the current wars: scorched earth, and dreadful casualties on both sides. A truce was preferable. (As to what was to be done about Major Daubenay, and HIS previous memorable encounters with Sir Richard and Pen, it was beyond the power of mere human ingenuity to say, and they must be kept apart as long as could be contrived. Sir Richard might engage to apologise for any incivility he had shown when last they met, but the Major could not be allowed to guess the secret of Pen's masquerade, since his temper was notably explosive and his discretion, unlike Mr Phillips', could be no means be relied upon.)

So it was that the young ladies were introduced, and Lydia made her curtsy, and if Pen felt an ignoble satisfaction at her own seniority of rank, she at least had the good breeding not to show this too plainly on her face. If Sir Richard was for his part reminded of two cats meeting for the first time and circling each other, stiff-legged, fur bristling, tails twitching, each prepared to fall to hissing at the least provocation, he had the sense to smile inwardly and avoid his wife's eye until he could be sure that his face was entirely composed.

As they made their way through the French windows into the garden, Lady Luttrell drew the Corinthian a little apart from the young people and asked him with her ironical smile what he had made of yesterday’s proceedings. “I must own that I am somewhat sorry that Sir Jasper’s strong disapprobation prevented me from attending. Even allowing for Lydia’s natural tendency to exaggerate, and my son’s partiality, it does seem to have lacked nothing of the theatrical.”

“Ah,” said her host, “there we differ, ma’am, for I found it in me to imagine many more dramatic and unpleasant events that could have occurred during the course of the day, and I am heartily glad that they did not. All in all, it passed off as smoothly as one could have wished.”

“I imagine that poor Lady Saar was in the greatest possible distress?”

“Yes, she was quite inconsolable. At least she has the support of her family...” Apart from her noble husband, who curses her and throws empty brandy bottles at her head, Sir Richard added silently. “We must hope that now that the anxiety of the trial is behind her she may slowly recover some at least of her tranquillity of mind.”

“Do you think I should write to her again to express my condolences? I do not wish to reawaken unpleasant memories, nor cause her any further pain, so I should be grateful for your advice, sir, since you know her well.”

“I think she would be glad of it. I believe that the unpleasant memories are always there, so that there is not a question of them being stirred up by anyone, and that a letter delicately expressed, as I know yours would be, could perhaps give her a little comfort, and make her feel that she is not forgotten.”

“Then I shall certainly write,” she said with resolution. She looked at him with an altered aspect, and said in a much lighter tone, “So, Sir Richard, I hope I see you well, and happy, now that this dreadful business is concluded – indeed, I am sure I do!”

His irresistible smile broke forth. “Thank you, ma’am, I am pleased to say that you find us both very well and very happy. I am the luckiest man alive, I think.”

“I believe my son might dispute with you for that honour,” she said sardonically. “Let me tell you, sir, that it is most irritating to a woman of my years and disposition – and may we not even speak of my poor husband, whose temper has always been uncertain at best - to find myself living with a pair of lovebirds in the house, and I can only hope that you and Pen can at least maintain a rational mode of discourse, or I shall be driven quite mad.”

He laughed, and said, “We shall at least endeavour to do so, but I can make you no firm promises, ma’am. Our case is not so very different.”

“I feared as much. But I hope you may make the attempt, for I am come to invite you both to dine at Crome Hall on Saturday, and Sir Jasper has high hopes of intelligent conversation, for he considers you to be a sensible person – high praise indeed, from him - and he finds precious few in his circle.”

“Thank you, ma'am! How sadly true that is,” Sir Richard murmured, his eyes falling on Lydia, who appeared to be acting out the progress of the trial for Pen’s benefit, with added dramatic actions, quite in the Drury Lane manner. 

Lady Luttrell could only laugh, and admit the justice of this, and once she had enquired discreetly after Pen's health (for she had naturally long since been made privy to her interesting secret) she moved forward to divert the general flow of the conversation to more indifferent subjects, such as the news from the Peninsula, and the weather. It was agreed that they could scarcely hope for the autumn to continue so fine and warm, and the party soon chose to stroll along the garden terraces and benefit from what might be the last of the sunshine.

Pen found herself for a moment at Piers’ side. She was pleased to see him at last, and made haste to congratulate him cheerfully upon his marriage. He was obliged in common courtesy to do the same to her, but it was plain that he still felt a degree of constraint in her company. He had seemed excessively uncomfortable in her presence when she had been posing as a boy, which she supposed she could understand, but he appeared no happier now that she was restored to more conventional attire. He kept, she could not help but notice, darting anxious, furtive glances at Lydia. His hostess was unable to determine if he was anxious to return to his bride because of the extent of his dependence on her, or if he was, as she suspected, merely frightened that she would greatly dislike his talking with his old companion, and make him suffer for it later by some display of jealousy.

When he did focus his full attention on her, it was no better. He looked her in the face suddenly and said with a frown, “You know, Pen, I can still make no sense of what you told me when last I saw you. I have naturally been much occupied with Lydia, and our situation, but when I reflect on what you and Sir Richard said to me of your reasons for being in Queen Charlton this summer, I cannot make head nor tail of it.”

Pen could have wished that his self-preoccupation might have been just a little more complete, but she had thought that there was an outside chance her old friend might question her, and she was prepared. “That is because we were not entirely honest with you,” she said with a small smile. “When Richard told you that we were betrothed, it was not true; not then. He only said so because you were so disapproving of our travelling together, and he had a care for my reputation.”

“Good God, Pen, what were you about, in that case, careering about the countryside with him and…and staying in inns?!”

She stiffened at his censorious tone, but said calmly, “I think I told you that my aunt was attempting to force me to marry my cousin and that I had decided my only course was to run away. I came to Somerset seeking your mother’s help.” Her pride would naturally not allow her to admit that it had been Piers himself whose help she had sought, and so she told him the tale of her flight that Sir Richard had crafted for the benefit of his family. “Richard was passing when I escaped the house that night, and when he heard my story he insisted on coming with me, because he feared I would not be safe, travelling all alone.” Her voice grew warm at the recollection. "He has always treated me with the greatest possible consideration, from out very first meeting."

Piers did not seem to be mollified, nor even entirely to believe her. “Pen! You consented that he should accompany you thus – a man, a stranger? This is a shocking story that you are telling me!”

“I do not see why!” she said with some heat. “There was no impropriety at all – the only impropriety was in YOUR mind!”

He brushed this aside. “Nonsense! I can say that I have some experience of the world, unlike you.” He said with sudden comprehension, “I see it all now! I understand why you did not seem sure if you wanted to marry him, under duress as you were!”

She laughed at the absurdity of his words. “Duress! Certainly not! I have always been very happy in Richard’s company. It was only when you asked if I did not want to marry him that I realised in truth how much I did. But you were so shocked by our situation that you made me think that he only asked me out of pity, and his sense of honour, and so I refused him. Poor Richard – the trouble I put him to!”

“And yet you married him after all. I can only imagine that you came to your senses when you realised the gravity of your situation, the irreparable damage done to your good name!” he said heavily. 

“Good gracious, Piers, how did you come to be so pompous? Have you been spending time with your father-in-law the Major? No! I came to my senses when Richard managed to convince me that he truly loved me! I fear that with your nice sense of propriety it will shock you if I tell you how he did it: he took me in his arms and kissed me!”

He was offended, and said stiffly, “I do not think it pompous to show my disapproval of your imprudence. I wonder at Sir Richard’s behaviour, I really do.”

Pen was both hurt and angry. She was unconscious of the fact that, as they argued, her hand had fallen instinctively, protectively to her waist. Piers’ eyes followed her hand, and he gasped. “My God, Pen, you are not… Oh, now indeed I see why you married in such haste!”

She glared at him, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “You are illogical, sir! Richard and I married two weeks to the day after our first meeting. Even if were…what you clearly think me, and Richard were the kind of man you think him – which shows that you are a very poor judge of character, despite your vaunted knowledge of the world! – we could scarcely have known of my…my condition so quickly! But you will see, when my baby is born. Even you will be able to count to nine on your grubby little fingers and see that you do us a grave injustice!”

Piers was stunned, and a little shame-faced. Plainly he could think of nothing to say but a pathetic, stammered apology. She ignored it, saying only, “I think you had better go back to your wife, Piers, before you incur her anger as well as mine. She has been watching us this age, and with no very happy expression.”

He muttered some incoherent excuse, and made his escape to Lydia’s side, smiling at her placatingly and putting a supplicatory hand on her arm. Pen took a few deep breaths, then straightened her shoulders, pinned a smile upon her face and re-joined her husband. The party took tea in an atmosphere of slight constraint, and the Luttrells did not long delay their departure, Lady Luttrell raising an eyebrow drolly at the Corinthian when unobserved by her son and daughter-in-law. It seemed all too likely that the unhappy Mr Luttrell would shortly be assailed on two fronts: by his wife, for his long conversation with Pen, and by his mother, for being so foolish as to fall to quarrelling in public with his old friend.

Sir Richard was a man who missed very little, and as soon as they were alone he asked Pen what was the matter. “I think you have been arguing with Piers, and I cannot wonder at it. I hope he has not said anything to cut up your tranquillity. They are a truly provoking couple. At least Lydia did not cry on this occasion, which I think must be the first without tears in our admittedly brief acquaintance with her.” He hated to see Pen distressed, and was determined to coax a smile back to her face.

Her eyes sparkled in quick appreciation, and she consented to be diverted for a moment. “Very true, and no swooning either! I do like her a little better when she is not weeping all over me. But she seemed to think that the proceedings yesterday were chiefly about her, and to view them as a theatrical performance. I fear that she is not someone I can imagine being great friends with, and that is a pity, I think, since we will be such close neighbours.” She had had time to recover her composure now, and she thought it best not to blurt out Piers’ insulting words to her husband in case he should feel that her honour demanded that he do something about them. He could hardly challenge her childhood playmate to a duel, or knock him down - briefly appealing though the idea was - and she did not want to be the cause of friction between them. But she knew he perceived that she had been upset, and felt she had to say something to explain it. “I am truly shocked at Piers, who seems to me to be insipid, stuffy and altogether not the person I remember from my childhood. Richard, he has a sadly commonplace mind!”

He put a comforting arm about her. “I am sorry he has perturbed you with his foolishness. I do not think he can help himself. I remember how priggish he was when he took a hand in our affairs before and nearly ruined all. Perhaps after all it is as well you did not marry him, my dear.” 

“Indeed, I think so!” she exclaimed sharply. But then she began to smile a little, as she leaned her head on Sir Richard’s strong shoulder and said, “What an escape I had! And Piers too, for if I had married him I fear I should have been driven very quickly to murder. We should not have suited in the least!”

“I am very glad to hear it, Pen,” he said with a smile. “Of course I enter into your feelings. Piers is a smug young idiot, and I think Mrs Luttrell must be one of the most featherbrained females I have ever encountered. You know I speak as someone who has spent more than ten years in London society, heaven help me. But they are, as you say, our nearest neighbours, and always will be. I can only hope that perhaps we will come to have more to say to them and grow closer as we have children, and they do, and the children become friends and play together, and so on, do you not think?”

“And that is another thing!” she went on, placing a protective hand over her midriff once more. “I shall never permit Miss or Mr Wyndham to marry one of their exceedingly tedious progeny, however well they play together, and I hope you will not countenance it either, however much he or she may beseech us to do so!”

He put his hand over hers, drawing her closer and saying, “Now there, my little love, I think you will find matters quite out of your control, as Lady Luttrell would be the first to tell you! It is most entertaining to picture you as a stern mama, Pen, but you cannot have considered the matter fully! Would you have our unfortunate offspring elope to Gretna Green? Board a stagecoach and consort with thieves? Or merely climb out of a window by way of the sheets?!”

She twinkled receptively at him, her good humour quite restored, and said appreciatively, “Oh, you are quite right, of course! I should be the most dreadful, prosy hypocrite indeed, should I not? I beg you to tell me at once, dear Richard, and do not spare my feelings, if I should become…” She looked at him in mock horror and whispered awfully, “DULL!”

He smiled down at her, his eyes full of laughter and love. “Never! I cannot countenance the possibility! You will always be my outrageous, adorable brat!”


	35. Epilogue

October passed very pleasantly, and in November it came time to pay a visit to Louisa and George, at their fine estate on the river near Marlow; an easy enough day's drive from Somerset in Sir Richard's modern, well-sprung chaise. The Dowager was among the guests, and had been apprised of Pen's interesting condition by letter. She was entirely delighted, and was now in a fair way of taking much of the credit for this very satisfactory state of affairs, persuading herself somehow that Louisa, not she, had been all along the one advocating so foolishly for Melissa, though she did not mean to blame her for it, nor mention it above once a day or so. This made her daughter quite wild with aggravation, but she bit her lip and said nothing, for the sake of peace in the family.

Late one fine, crisp morning, the Wyndham ladies were partaking of a leisurely, informal breakfast together. The men of the party were all out shooting, and their other female guests were still abed. Pen put down her teacup with a rattle. "Oh!" she exclaimed.

Louisa and her mother looked up in quick concern. "Are you unwell, Penelope, dear? I hope you have not overtired yourself in any way!" asked the Dowager. "Here - take my hartshorn, quickly!"

"No, I am not unwell, ma'am. It is only that I experienced the most curious sensation, of...of movement. How very odd - I suppose it must be the baby, do you not think?"

"My dear, how thrilling! Is it the first time you have felt it?" Louisa asked, and her sister-in-law nodded. The three ladies were looking rather misty-eyed all at once, and Pen realised when considering it later that it was an occasion she would not soon forget. "It is called quickening, that first flicker of movement - only wait until he or she..."

"He, Louisa," interjected her mother reproachfully. "You know that it is quite settled that the dear child shall be a boy!"

"Only wait until he, or she - it may very well be a girl, Mama, and I am sure it does not signify in the least - starts to perform somersaults!" Pen was a little green-faced at the thought, and Louisa realised her error, and hastened to reassure her that it was in no way a painful sensation, but rather reassuring, that all was well. The Dowager was inspired to recall how very active and troublesome Louisa herself had been, not only in utero, but at all times afterwards. 

In their excitement, the ladies had quite forgotten the presence of Louisa's daughters, who had been listening in silent fascination, nudging each other surreptitiously and making most unladylike grimaces. Now they began to ask such excessively awkward questions that Louisa was quite put to the blush, and Pen was obliged to cover her face with her hand to hide her amusement, which would surely make matters worse if the girls perceived it. She was very happy, and could hardly wait to tell her husband the news, though she had been sorry to learn that this faint, fluttering movement would not be perceptible to him, and that it would be some while yet till he could feel the change for himself.

The weeks passed, the Wyndhams returned home from Berkshire, and soon enough Sir Richard was able to lay his hand on Pen's rounded belly and feel the extraordinary sensation of their child moving inside her, and kiss the place where they had felt the movement, before he took her in his arms and told her for the thousandth time how much he loved her, and how lucky he was to have met her.

It was a long, harsh winter, in the West Country and elsewhere, the coldest most people could remember. The Wyndhams celebrated their first Christmas together in fine style in the great hall with their servants and tenants; the long refectory table groaned with food and drink, the huge stone fireplace was filled with crackling logs, and holly and pine boughs festooned every surface. Sir Richard lifted Pen up - she needed his help by now - to stand on a chair, radiant in her wine-red velvet gown, and she made a short speech of welcome that was cheered to the rafters. It was a great thing, everyone agreed, to see Queen’s Manor a family home again, after so many years. They gave a toast: to those we have lost, and may they never be forgotten, but now to the future!

New Year’s Eve was a more private celebration: Pen’s eighteenth birthday. It began to snow that night, and did not leave off. The couple had expected their first visit from Louisa and George and all the family in January, as well as Sir Richard's old friends the Ludlows, but this was not to be thought of. It was hard enough to struggle through the drifts from the village, such a short distance away; that anyone should make a journey of near a hundred miles was quite out of the question. The hills around Queen Charlton were deeply blanketed in white, and in the Bristol Channel the sea froze. In London, by the start of February, the great Thames too froze solid, and a splendid Frost Fair was held, with an elephant on the ice, and all manner of diversions, but they knew nothing of it in Somerset, for they were all but cut off. 

The Wyndhams closed up the newer wings of the house, and the shutters were hung against the big windows. They retreated to the Tudor heart of the building, and spent their time in the library, or in the oak-panelled bedchamber they now used. They read to each other, sketched, talked idly, or played cards for vast imaginary stakes, or merely for a kiss. In Mr Creed's library, they found his private journals: the record of his extensive travels across Europe and beyond, and his first-hand account of the terrifying aftermath of the French Revolution, his daring rescue of Pen's mother and their headlong flight across France. It was gripping stuff, well written, by turns amusing, hair-raising and deeply moving, and they began to think of preparing it for publication, as a memorial to him and to her.

It was near impossible to seek outdoor exercise, especially for Pen, as the snow was piled hedge-high, so they walked up and down the picture gallery, wrapped against the cold, even indoors. Pen was very glad of the warmth of her brocade coat over her gowns now, no matter the purpose for which it had originally been intended; it was too cold in the house to remain naked for more than a few moments when dressing or washing hurriedly. The winter nights were long, and there was time enough for intimacy in the darkness - laughter, and kisses and caresses, sighs of pleasure, and drowsy contentment afterwards - but only when huddled deep under layers of bedcovers.

The tenants of Pen’s smaller farms left their homes, and brought their livestock and children to stay at the manor, filling the empty rooms on one side of the stable yard. The animals in the stalls below helped to keep them warm, and there was venison aplenty, from the deer that had been culled to protect the future of the herd, and fruit and vegetables that Mrs Slade had toiled to preserve all through the autumn. In the afternoons, Pen taught the small children to read in the library, and Sir Richard rode out wrapped in his many-caped coat, on one of the great farm horses, to call in on those farmers who had not been able or willing to leave their homes. The red deer came down from the hill, and braved the open gate of the kitchen garden, nuzzling for frozen stalks and leaves beneath the snow. It was beautiful, and deadly, but everyone in Queen’s Manor was safe and snug.

The drifts lay deep until well into March, and by now it was obvious that it was too late; there was no prospect of travelling back to London for Pen’s lying-in. As the roads cleared of snow and thawed to a quagmire of mud, Sir Richard rode to Bristol and engaged the services of a brisk Edinburgh doctor, whose no-nonsense manner reassured him. Pen would have no truck with a fashionable Bath practitioner, for she felt with some justice that it was a city of valetudinarians and invalids; the elderly ladies and gentlemen who formed a large part of the population of that city could hardly demand the skills of an accoucheur so very often, and she would rather be under the care of someone who saw women in her condition as a regular part of his practice. 

It was a cool, damp spring evening much like any other, and Sir Richard was pulling back Pen’s chair for her to sit at the dining table, when she stopped suddenly, her hands going to her belly. Her face was pale all at once, and she said, “Richard! I think you had better call for Mrs Slade directly!” She tried to smile bravely, but made a poor fist of it.

Peter and Jem were sent off in the carriage to Bristol, as fast as could be. “Spring ‘em!” instructed Sir Richard.

After several anxious hours, in which Mrs Slade was of some assistance to Pen and Sir Richard felt himself to be almost entirely useless – in fact, he was forced to acknowledge, much less than useless, for his wife found herself obliged to attempt to maintain an air of calm for his benefit - the medical gentleman arrived, and bustled upstairs with hearty words of reassurance. 

And time stopped.

Sir Richard paced up and down the library, or sat with his head in his hands, praying to a god he was not sure he believed in, and berating himself for his criminal folly and selfishness, for allowing this to happen. If… He would not allow himself to complete the thought.

The night was endless. It was still fully dark when he thought he heard a faint sound, a creak on the stairs, and he was on his feet and staring at the door when it opened to admit Mrs Slade. He saw with a pang of horror that she had been crying – but she was smiling. He found himself unable to speak. 

She said, “All is well, sir. You have a fine son, and Miss Pen…her ladyship is in excellent health, though very tired. I am sure you wish to go to her.”

He had been holding his breath, and released it with a great sigh, smiling at her. “Thank you, Mrs Slade! I know that having you with her at such a time must have been the greatest possible comfort to her.”

Her eyes were brimming. “In the absence of her poor mother, sir, I am sure it was, and glad I am of it. I only wish she and Mr Creed could have been here to see this day.”

They had moved to the foot of the staircase, and stood aside now to let the doctor pass. He shook hands with Sir Richard, and congratulated him heartily on the birth of a strong, healthy boy. “An entirely normal labour, I am pleased to tell you; quite short, in the run of these things. Easy, as easy as can be expected, you will be pleased to know, sir. I congratulate you on your wife’s excellent constitution.”

Sir Richard made some polite response, and watched Mrs Slade’s mouth purse a little. As clearly as if she had formed the words aloud, though of course she would not dream of doing so, he saw her pass comment on the propensity of gentlemen to know what might be easy for a member of the female sex, and what might be hard.

She led the doctor away to break his fast, and Sir Richard took the stairs two at a time to Pen’s chamber. He found her sitting up in bed, with her maid bustling about the room, making all tidy again. Kemp curtsied, and discreetly removed herself, leaving them alone.

He strode to his wife’s side, and sank down on the bed beside her. He had no attention just now to spare for the bundle in her arms, but all was for her. “My love…” he said huskily.

She smiled up at him. Her face was pale and tired, but her blue eyes were sparkling. He found that he was crying, and he was not ashamed of it. He put out his hand and touched her face very gently. “Pen, I…” He broke off; what was there to say? That he loved her? She knew it. That he could not have borne to lose her? How ridiculously, unpardonably selfish it would be to burden her with his fears, as if seeking sympathy for what HE had endured while he waited, when she was the one who had endured real suffering and pain, and risked her precious life this past night. 

She shook her head, able, he was sure, to read all that he was not saying written on his face. “Richard, do not fret, I am very well. But only look at him! Is he not the most perfect creature imaginable? I have been gazing at his hands this past while, his tiny fingernails. Can you believe that we made him?”

"Oh, my love, we did..." The Corinthian looked down at the scrap of life in Pen’s arms. Their son. He had never previously held strong opinions on the few babies of his acquaintance, his nieces and nephew - other than remarking in passing, and inwardly, how disconcertingly they resembled his uncle Lucius, pink and round - but he felt sure in an instant that Pen was right. Such a flawless being had surely never existed before; it was impossible. The baby's hair was inclined to be fair, like his mother's, and the large blue eyes were open, but unfocused, and as Richard watched in fascination the tiny rosebud mouth opened in a yawn. “May I hold him?”

Pen placed the child carefully in his father's arms. "Say good day to your papa!" 

She watched him look down in sudden rapt wonder and adoration, though it could not be described as mutual; his heir at present seemed entirely oblivious to his existence. “He has your curls, Pen! I have not previously considered that matter, but I did not know that new-born babies could have curly hair.”

“I don’t think they do very often, Richard. I know I did.”

The baby let out a curious little noise, between a sneeze and a snort, which crumpled up his tiny face for a second, and seemed to startle him. Sir Richard was enthralled. “I feel I should greet him somehow, but 'Good day, Master Henry Edward George Wyndham' seems absurd. Harry, do you think, Pen, like your father? Good morning, Harry." He very softly kissed the child's brow. 

He had regained his composure a little. He was paterfamilias now, after all. He had duties, responsibilities - and it was an unexpected joy to think it - to those he loved. What an extraordinary thing. Only a year ago - less than that - he had been sunk in a grey fog, aimless, caring for nobody, least of all himself, his steps set on a path that would surely have led only to unhappiness, perhaps to misery, and even disaster, and a life of regret. And then Pen had fallen into his arms...

"My love, you have your family at last."

"Oh, I have barely begun!" she said with an irrepressible twinkle. "And only consider, poor Louisa will be as mad as fire, for your mother was quite right that it should be a boy, and will be entirely insupportable!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End!
> 
> I'm sad to come to the end, and I hope you have enjoyed this. Thanks for sticking with it, and for all your kudos and kind comments, particularly the people who have commented frequently; I really appreciate it.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this first chapter. I originally wrote it separately from the story A Short Curricle Ride in Somerset, so there might be a tiny bit of overlap in terms of conversation. As for the question of HOW exactly Lady Luttrell is going to explain to her servants (not her maid, as obviously she'll have to be in on the secret) the fact that Pen has suddenly and apparently magically appeared at Crome Hall, I have no idea. Maybe she'll tell them (in strictest confidence, naturally) that Pen is eloping with Sir Richard and he brought her there in secret, because of nasty old Aunt Almeria? Or something. It's nearly true.


End file.
